


After

by Abradystrix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Other, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-10-24 17:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abradystrix/pseuds/Abradystrix
Summary: The war is over, but Hermione's struggle has only just begun.Faced with a mother who doesn't recognise her and a father who needs her more than ever, Hermione finds herself tested in ways she hadn't ever anticipated. Thankfully, she's not alone - Ron is by her side each step of the way, with the added support of her chosen family, Harry, Ginny, and even Fleur.Amidst the Granger chaos, Ron comes to terms with life after loss and how he can fit in to a world that has irrevocably changed. The exhilarating prospect of Auror training looms large, as Ron finds himself anew in a landscape of responsibility and love.





	1. Prologue ~ Australia

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time coming. It is still a work-in-progress, and will cover the period from June 1998 to January 1999, roughly. POV will alter primarily between Ron and Hermione, and the text will be largely compliant with canon, and riddled with my own foibles I am sure.
> 
> The amazing @bounding-heart and the effervescent @torestoreamends have been sublime in their support of my often tortured prose, and lamentations about Romione over the years. Their beta-reading is second to none, and I appreciate their friendship even more than their eagle eyes for punctuation and superfluous adverbs.

He’s done it again, he thinks to himself, looking at the kettle. 

He had come to the staff room to make himself and his wife a cup of tea, and inexplicably he’s set up a third mug. He shakes his head slightly and places the mug back into the cupboard, pausing as he presses the door closed. Listening to the kettle boil, he lets out a sigh, curious as to how and why this keeps happening. It’s just one of a litany of things that he can’t quite explain since they arrived in Australia.

Ever since they moved here, he’s felt a sense of _deja vu_. Sometimes he thinks it’s the place names: Maida Vale, Victoria Park, High Wycombe. The motivation he had to come here, to set up home in this strange and vast country, it seems to ebb and flow, and sometimes he finds himself looking out of the windows of their apartment at night, staring at the water and missing… something. Maybe it’s natural when you’ve uprooted your life. Maybe it’s just symptomatic of the whirlwind that has been the last year, moving from Bristol— and Britain — to Perth. 

He thinks that she feels it too, sometimes, but he doesn’t want to pry because he doesn’t dare. There’s an underlying anxiety that if he starts to untangle this feeling, it simply won’t end, and something intangible will unravel. So they continue to exist and live a good life together, even when he finds himself looking over his shoulder for someone or something that’s simply not there; or when he inexplicably makes three cups of tea rather than two.

It is now a dusky Thursday evening in July, and he leaves his wife’s cup of tea on the counter to steep. He still has a patient to see today - he doesn’t usually take patients after four o’clock but their receptionist said it was the funniest thing, a young couple had come in that morning, new to the area, and she’d mistakenly pencilled them in. He hadn’t the heart to correct him, and when the buzzer goes just before five, he pulls himself away from the window overlooking the Swan River, and his half-drunk cup of tea, feeling oddly sanguine about this disruption to routine. 

‘Dr Wilkins?’ Dale calls over the intercom. ‘Your 5pm is here.’

When the door opens, he smiles at Philippa, their new dental nurse, who scurries over to the counter to prepare materials. His gaze falls now on the young woman standing at the door. He doesn’t expect the breath to catch in his throat, or the thump of his heart against her ribs. He knows this girl. He knows the curl of her hair and the brown of her eyes. Yet he doesn’t know her at all - he can’t. It’s impossible. The name Penelope Clearwater is completely new to him and this girl — this young woman — standing before him looks like she has lived an incredibly difficult life.

Her brown hair is pushed back behind her ears, and her face… her face is so beautiful, he thinks, but so terribly sad. There’s a thin scar on her neck and her eyes are dark and tired. He wants to keep drinking this in, looking at every inch of her, but he knows it’s irrational and inexplicable. Fumbling, he gestures for her to take a seat. He notices her right hand flex near her coat pocket, and watches as she walks stiffly over to the chair, her eyes shining. 

Philippa seems to have picked up on the tension in the room, and averts her gaze as she wipes the tools, looking awkwardly to the door. Just as it closes, Wendell Wilkins catches a glimpse of a shock of red hair, and a concerned face. He shakes his head, as though trying to clear water from his ears, and turns his attention back to his patient, who is now looking up at him with an intense mix of anxiety, anticipation and something that he can’t quite label. 

There’s a sudden noise from outside the examination room and Philippa jumps up and runs out to check what’s happened. Wendell watches her leave and as the door bangs closed once more, a sudden wave of dizziness hits him. His last thought as he keels over in his seat is that he’s certain he’s about to faint.

And yet - he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath, raises his head, and looks at his daughter, standing before him, wand raised, tears streaming down her face.

‘Hermione…’ he says, ‘…my darling, what’s happened?’ Without hesitation he stands and pulls his daughter into a tight hug, tears rolling down his own face now, buried in his daughter’s hair. 

‘Dad… Dad you need to sit down…’ Hermione tells him. She conjures a chair with a shaking hand, and they sit, so that their knees touch and their hands can clasp. Paul Granger nods, eyes focussed intently on Hermione, hands reaching to touch her face. Hermione shakes her head, avoiding his gaze. She seems to be waiting. Waiting for what?

The ticking of the surgery clock seems to expand and fill the silence, and with it, the surreality of the situation starts to wash over him.

‘But you’re… we’re… we’re in Australia, Hermione. Why are we in Australia?’ he asks, his heart racing and a sense of panic rising in him, growing bigger with each second passing. ‘Where’s your mother? What… what have you done, Hermione?’

His daughter’s lower lip trembles and Paul has a sudden flashback to a five year old Hermione, standing at their back door in Bristol, eyes brimming with tears, holding a broken vase. Paul can’t remember the context, but he can remember how inconsolable Hermione had been about breaking it. Even when they’d mended it together with glue and paint, his daughter only been able to focus on the cracks. To this day, he moves the vase from the living room when Hermione comes home, but keeps it in his bedroom as a reminder of his role as a parent, to put things back together for his child.

‘There’s… a lot to tell you Dad, and I need you to know that I’m so so sorry,’ she says, furiously wiping the tears from her cheeks.

There’s a knock at the door and Hermione turns as a tall, red-headed young man slips into the room. He glances from Hermione to her father, and looks questioningly at her. Hermione nods. Ron Weasley flushes and looks at Paul, lost for words. He notices the wand in Ron’s hand and feels himself bristle, panic rising further in his throat.

‘Where’s Philippa? Dale?’ he asks, trying to stand up.

‘They’re fine! They’re ok!’ Ron says, quickly, catching the look in her eye and hurrying to put his wand away. ’Dale is in the bathroom and Philippa popped outside.’ He eyes him warily, and his ears turn red.

‘And your mother?’ he asks, turning back to Hermione. ‘Where is she? She was supposed to have a five o’clock…’ his voice trails off as she looks up at their guilty faces. ‘Was that you too?’

Ron interjects quickly. ‘Dr Granger… please. She’s ok. I just saw her. She’s just waiting on us. She doesn’t know yet.’

‘Neither do I,’ he spits out, suddenly furious. ‘I don’t know anything. I don’t know where I am or why I am or what the bloody hell is happening. Hermione Jean Granger, I love you to the ends of the earth but you need to explain yourself now.’

He doesn’t miss the way that Ron’s hand touches Hermione’s shoulder, or the way his fingers reflexively squeeze as she starts to shake again. 

‘Is there somewhere we can go?’ asks Ron, tentatively. Paul nods tersely.

‘We can go to the house. Just… just get Helen first. Please. I don’t even know what that means but please just do it.’ Hermione flinches at the ice in her father’s words and silently gets up.

‘It might help…’ Hermione says softly, ‘it might help if you’re there.’

Angry and confused though he is, Paul nods, and follows his daughter through to his wife’s adjoining exam room. She glances up from her notes, a bemused smile on her face.

‘Hello Wendell dear. Is this my patient? Miss Clearwater?’

As she catches sight of Hermione, a perplexed expression crosses her face. Her hand moves to her mouth. With her father there, Hermione doesn’t seem able to hesitate, even for a moment. She raises her wand and before her mother can say anything, her eyes glaze over and she rolls back into her chair. Unlike her husband, Helen Granger is out cold for at least a minute. The unlikely trio of Paul, Hermione and Ron watch in rapt silence for a moment, before Paul starts to panic.

‘What have you done Hermione? What’s going on? Why isn’t she awake?’ he asks frantically, kneeling by his wife’s chair, gripping heri arm. Hermione is crying again, her voice shaking as she replies.

‘I don’t know. I don’t… sometimes it’s harder. People are different.’

At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Helen begins to stir. She raises her head slowly, looking first at her husband then at her daughter.

‘What’s going on?’ 

Hermione rushes over and throws her arms around her mother. 

‘Mum. Mum, I’m so sorry, Mum.’

But Helen doesn’t respond. She jerks away, panicked, and looks to her husband with wide eyes.

‘Wendell - Wendell what’s happening? Who the hell is she?’

It hasn’t worked. Whatever it is, it hasn’t worked. Hermione crumples like a broken doll and Ron rushes forward to catch her before she hits the ground sobbing. Paul doesn’t know what to say. Before he knows it, Helen has keeled over onto the floor and he finds himself looking into the blue eyes of Ron Weasley, desperate for some kind of answer or comfort as he shakes his wife’s shoulder gently.

‘It’s a long story,’ says Ron, quietly. Paul wrenches his gaze back to Helen and realises that she’s fitting. His instincts kick in, and he shouts for an ambulance. That’s the last thing he remembers, before it all goes black.

  
  



	2. An Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione, Paul and Ron arrive back in the UK. Hermione faces unpleasant memories of St Mungo's and the reality of what has happened, while Ron finds himself taking charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @bounding-heart and @torestoreamends for the patient and kind beta-ing and friendship.

**[Hermione]**

_It hadn’t worked._

The words kept rolling round and round in Hermione’s head as they arrived in London. The wizarding extension to Heathrow, made for International Portkeys, was in utter disarray. Piles of trunks lined the walls of the wooden-panelled corridor, accompanied by an assortment of tired and frustrated wizards, and as she sat there, she wondered how many were in the same situation as them, how many were refugees of the war, and how many had so much yet to do. She wondered bitterly if any of them had messed up as badly as she had, or if that was her unique burden to bear. Ron seemed to sense her anger with herself and gently squeezed her hand and met her gaze, a soft kind of sternness in his blue eyes. 

Eli, the Australian Medi-Wizard who had accompanied them on their journey, was readying himself to leave. He had to get back to Australia for more escort duties. Hermione thanked him absently, while her father stared down at his wife’s inert form on the stretcher that had travelled with the group from Australia. Ron shook his hand and promised to update him. 

Eli had handed them over to the care of a Ministry Official, Heap, a smartly dressed man with lime green Healer’s robes and a clipboard. Efficiently, he levitated the stretcher on which Helen Granger lay towards their final Portkey, which would take them from this border port directly to St Mungo’s. Hermione’s heart twisted as she saw her father’s face whiten, stricken at the through of another Portkey experience. He didn’t say anything, but his discomfort seeped into Hermione’s mind like something rotten, amplifying the guilt already coursing through her veins. She closed her eyes briefly, willing her tears away, and focused on taking hold of the old mug proffered to her by Heap. The jerk under her navel barely registered, and before she knew it, they were there. 

Heap was talking to them, but Hermione couldn’t really register what he was saying. The exhaustion of the last 36 hours was catching up with her, and it was all she could do not to sway on the spot. Ron was nodding, asking questions and making sure her father was following the exchange. She felt a pang of sickening gratitude for Ron and the support and steadfastness he’d shown her since they landed in Australia. Since before then, really. She squeezed his hand in a vain attempt to express some of that feeling, and he squeezed back instantly, pulling her nearer to him, making sure their arms were aligned and touching in a way that he knew reassured her. They were escorted upstairs, and Hermione realised with growing horror that they were heading for the Janus Thickey Ward, for long-term spell damage. 

Images of Neville’s parents flooded her mind, along with the unbidden thought that the damage she had wrought on her mother might lead to the same end for her. She spotted a bathroom sign and quickly darted off. Heart hammering, she just managed to make it to the stall before she vomited. She couldn’t tell if it was tears or sweat rolling down her cheeks - it didn’t seem to matter. The rush of adrenaline and the taste of acrid bile centred her, and she sat on her knees for a moment, breathing raggedly. She jumped as she heard the stall door creak open behind her, her hand twitching for her wand. 

‘Hermione?’ Ron asked, his voice soft and full of concern. She winced. 

‘You shouldn’t be in here, Ron,’ she said, her voice cracking slightly. ‘Girls’ bathroom.’ 

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ 

She heard him shift behind her and gently push the door closed. A warm hand rested between her shoulder blades, and despite herself, she closed her eyes and leaned back slightly. She heard the flush of the loo, and felt the touch of Ron’s hand on her forehead. He helped her to her feet, and gently turned her to face him. 

‘Your dad needs you, Hermione,’ he said softly, but with no hint of recrimination in his voice. Her stomach churned again, compounded by an overwhelming wave of guilt. Ron pulled her to him for a tight hug, kissing the top of her head briefly. 

‘It’s going to be ok. It really is. We just need to get through this bit, love, and we’ll be ok.’ He spoke into her hair. She nodded against his chest and reached for the door of the stall. Together they washed their hands, Hermione splashing her face with some cold water. She didn’t dare to look at herself in the mirror, seeing only a blur of matted hair and a disturbingly pale face. Ron gently nudged her towards the door and she emerged into the hallway once more, stricken by the concern on her father’s face. 

‘Sorry, er… bathroom,’ she said to Heap, blushing slightly. 

‘Of course,’ said Heap, turning on his heel and continuing down the hallway. Her father reached over and touched her shoulder, offering a warm squeeze and a watery smile. She attempted to smile back, and together they followed Heap into the subdued lobby of the ward. 

Her mother was swiftly secluded to a private room. Rich blue curtains lined the windows, from which a view of Muggle London was visible. Helen was levitated onto a bed made up with light blue sheets. Heap gently tucked the sheets around her, and summoned three plush yellow armchairs. Gratefully, they sank into them. 

‘She’s stable for now, and should continue to sleep for the next 6 hours, based on the dosage of Dreamless Sleep that Eli administered. I’ll arrange for Healers to come by your room - they’ll need to take a verbal medical history from you Dr Granger, and details of the charm you performed Miss Granger - both the initial charm and the failed attempt at reversal.’ Hermione winced visibly at the word ‘failed’. Ron shot Heap a look of indignance and grabbed her hand, holding it firmly. 

‘She was keeping them safe,’ he shot at Heap, accusingly. 

‘I realise that,’ said Heap, flushing slightly. ‘I meant no offence. It was… indeed it _is_ remarkable charm work. And Minister Shacklebolt has made it clear that on this occasion, no charges will be brought.’ 

Some comfort, thought Hermione. 

‘In the meantime,’ continued Heap, avoiding Ron’s gaze and ignoring the look of shock on Paul’s face at the thought of illegality, ‘might I suggest that you get some rest and refreshment? I can summon tea, and you are welcome to have a nap in the room.’ 

Hermione and Paul stared at Heap in a daze, and Ron took charge once more. 

‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ he says, and Heap scurried out of the room. 

Ron turned to look at the Grangers. The silence, after so many hours of travel, was deafening. 

‘We need to regroup,’ he said. ‘I need to let my family know we’re back, and what’s happened… Hermione…’ 

‘You should go,’ she said, even though the thought of Ron leaving her side tore her up. ‘Let them know we’re here, that we’re… safe.’ 

He stood up quickly. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and promised to be back soon. He looked at Paul as though searching for words, and failing to find any, he darted from the room. Hermione turned to look at her father. He was gazing at her mother intently, through glassy eyes. She reached for his hand and breathed a sigh of relief when he gripped it in response. 


	3. A Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron returns home, Fleur surprises the Grangers, and with the arrival of Dr Fraser, things start to become clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team beta - @bounding-heart and @torestoreamends - excellent as always, and thank you for putting up with my Fleur, who I find quite difficult to write. I 'ope I did 'er justice...

**[Ron]**

Ron had forgotten about the Apparition wards round the Burrow. He was redirected to a field a five-minute walk away, and he ran as quickly as he could to get to the house bounds. It felt good to run after so long cooped up in various travel ports - he could feel some of the pent-up energy start to dissipate as he paused for breath at the garden gate. Breathing heavily, he pushed it open and was greeted by the sight of his mother engaged in combat with a small gnome. It growled at her as she lifted it by the ear. She threw it aside, as soon as she noticed Ron. Her face flushed and she let out a squeak, her eyes filling with tears. She ran to him and wrapped him in a warm, tight hug, and only at that point did Ron feel the burn at the back of his throat that he associated with childhood terrors, teenage angst and grief. The heady mixture of fatigue and jetlag caused a tear to escape down his cheek, but he stifled further sobs as his mother pulled him back to look at him. 

‘Where’s Hermione?’ she asked, searching his face and wiping the tear away. 

‘She’s okay, Mum. Things are just a bit more complicated than we expected.’ 

‘Complicated how?’ Molly asked, sharply, taking Ron’s arm and walking him towards the house, towards the warmth of the familiar kitchen. As they crossed the threshold, Ron was relieved to see his best friend and his sister sitting at the table with glasses of pumpkin juice. His mother busied herself with the kettle while Harry and Ginny rushed towards him. Ginny gripped him tightly in a hug and Harry grasped his shoulder, asking urgently, ‘where’s Hermione? Are you ok?’. Ron nodded and sat down, feeling suddenly dizzy. 

‘I… I can’t stay long. No, I need to get back to St Mungo’s,’ he protested as his Mum set down a mug of sweet tea and a plate of toast in front of him. Usually he would have wolfed this down with abandon, but he’d lost his appetite somewhere across the Pacific. 

‘St Mungo’s?’ Ginny asked, alarmed. 

‘It’s not Hermione. It’s her mum,’ he said, the lump in his throat threatening to dissolve once more. He took a sip of scalding tea to distract himself. 

‘She’s not…’ asked Harry, his face white. 

‘No. She just isn’t quite... back yet,’ Ron said. ‘It didn’t work. Dr Granger… Paul… he’s ok, he’s back, but Helen, she didn’t come round. She’s stuck. She thinks she’s still Monica fucking Wilkins.’ 

‘Language, Ron,’ his mother interjected, though her heart wasn’t in it. The shock of the news had robbed her face of any colour. 

‘And Hermione?’ Ginny asked urgently. 

‘She’s not great,’ he admitted, feeling utterly useless. ’She’s distraught. Thinks it’s all her fault. They’re at St Mungo’s now, Janus Thickey. I’ve got to get back, I just wanted to let you all know.’ 

‘What can we do?’ Molly asked, her eyes narrowing. ‘Can I at least send some food?’ 

Ron knew that it was futile to argue. 

‘Sure you can, Mum. I just need to get back to them as soon as I can.’ 

As Molly busied herself with the preparation of sandwiches, Ron could see Harry slumping in his seat, the guilt writ large on his face. Ron didn’t have the energy for that, not now. He was relieved to see Ginny grip Harry’s arm, hold his gaze and firmly shake her head. It seemed to do the trick, and Harry sat up straighter, jaw set. He couldn’t blame this one on himself, thought Ron. Not again. 

A few minutes later, Ron was escorted to the Floo, with a package of sandwiches in hand, on account of looking ‘too peaky to Apparate again’. He caught sight of their solemn faces as the fire whipped him away, Harry’s arm around Ginny and Mrs Weasley holding tight to her daughter’s hand. When Ron reemerged in St Mungo’s, he rushed to the Granger’s room to find Hermione and her father sitting in silence, their hands clasped, watching over Helen’s steady breathing, their tea untouched. He placed the sandwiches down on the side table, and pulled his chair in beside Hermione. 

‘Everyone sends their love,’ he said, gently. Hermione started at his voice, and turned to him, blinking. The thought of anyone outside of this bubble seemed to have shaken her. 

Paul excused himself to go and find a bathroom, and for the first time in two days, it was just Ron and Hermione once more. Ron supposed that was unfair, as technically Helen Granger was there with them, but it was too painful to even consider the person that lay behind her closed eyes, so he chose to focus instead on Hermione. She was curled up in her armchair, tightly wound, only her eyes visible over her knees as she stared at her mother. He sat down in the chair beside her, and wordlessly she climbed over into his lap. This gesture was so unprecedented, and so vulnerable, that Ron didn’t know what to say. He just held her as she cried and cried, until he thought at last she may have drifted off to sleep. 

Moments later, or so it felt, he jolted awake at the sound of the door opening, and was surprised to see his sister-in-law. Fleur swept down upon him, offering an awkward hug as Hermione stirred in his lap. 

‘You two,’ she said, clucking her tongue, and fussing over Hermione, holding her cheeks gently and looking at her face. ‘This has not been easy, no?’ 

‘No,’ said Hermione, her eyes cast downwards. 

‘We can ‘elp.’ Fleur said with determination. 

‘We?’ Ron asked. She let go of Hermione’s face and turned to beam at him. 

‘Yes, we. I ‘ave taken on a role as a ‘Ealer-in-training here. They are, ‘ow you say, fast-tracking after ze war.’ 

‘Great,’ Ron replied, thankful to have someone they knew on side. Even Hermione seemed calmer somehow. Ron had not forgotten that Fleur had played a huge role in Hermione’s recovery, and that the two had bonded during their stay at Shell Cottage. 

As Fleur busied herself with the charts on Helen’s bed, the door opened once more as Paul returned. Despite the gravity of the situation, Ron had to suppress a small smile as Paul’s mouth dropped open and his cheeks flushed at the sight of Fleur. It was only then that Ron realised that he had experienced none of his usual ‘Phlegm’ symptoms upon Fleur’s arrival - in fact, he hadn’t since Malfoy Manor. He looked at Hermione’s face and wondered how he ever had. 

‘You must be Monsieur Granger non? Dr Fraser eez on ‘er way,’ Fleur advised them, shaking Paul’s hand and kissing both his cheeks. He looked rather dumbstruck by this turn of events. 

‘Doctor?’ Ron interjected, a ghost of worry on his face. ‘Not a Healer?’ 

‘Not exactly,’ said Fleur. ‘Dr Fraser… Rosie… she does a little of both. She eez our Muggle liaison and primary care ‘ealer. She wanted to ‘elp. ‘Ealer Strout, she did not survive ze war.’ 

Ron had only a vague memory of Strout, helping Neville’s parents what seemed like an eternity ago, and fussing with a plant, a plant that had eventually killed Broderick Bode. He was dubious about the involvement of Muggle medicine, but if it reassured the Grangers, he was all for it. 

‘Rosie, she eez... dry. But she does know what she eez speaking of,’ said Fleur, in what Ron considered to be a notable act of tact for his sister-in-law. 

They summoned two more chairs and sat in companionable silence for a while. Ron offered round the sandwiches, and was pleased to see Hermione manage to eat half of a cheese and pickle, while her father made quick work of a corned beef. Fleur warmed their teacups and together they waited for Dr Fraser. 

When she arrived, Rosie Fraser was a surprise to those assembled. She was young, only a little shorter than Ron, and her brown eyes were magnified by old fashioned square glasses, with a thick black frame. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and visible underneath her lime green Healer’s robes were a pair of Muggle scrubs in a light blue colour. She had a stethoscope draped round her shoulders, and a quill in her hand. She pulled the door closed behind her, and introduced herself. 

‘Hello, I’m Dr Fraser… Rosie, please. I’m here to talk to you about what’s happened and see what we can do.’ 

There was something about the intensity of her gaze and the concern etched on her face that made Ron think of Hermione. She shook Paul’s hand and pulled up a small stool beside his chair. 

‘I will need to ask some questions, Dr Granger, about what’s been happening in the last few months,’ she said gently, nodding to his wife. Hermione held onto Ron’s hand, looking uncertain and frightened. This was not unnoticed by her father. 

‘Ron… please, you can stay,’ Paul asked. ‘For her.’ 

He didn’t need telling twice. 

Ron zoned out as they covered the basics - medical questions, going back as far as Helen’s childhood and up to Hermione’s birth. He held her hand tightly throughout, stroking it gently with his thumb. She didn’t cry - talking about the technicalities seemed to give her an anchor. A darkness flitted across Paul’s face when Hermione described her preparations, and Ron couldn’t help but wonder what it must feel like to have that autonomy taken from you, even when the ends justified the means. 

It wasn’t until Paul began to talk about Australia that Dr Fraser and Fleur began to hone in on details. Paul was describing the migraine medication which Helen had been taking when all of a sudden he stopped dead in his tracks. 

‘That was after the accident,’ he whispered, ashen. 

‘Accident?’ Rosie asked, her quill poised. 

‘We thought it was nothing major,’ Paul replied nervously. ‘We were out for a drive on a Sunday, and someone ran into us. The driver door was damaged and Helen, she got whiplash and a concussion. It was over within a week but she did say that her headaches worsened after that.’ 

Fleur and Rosie looked at one another, stricken. 

‘Surely that couldn’t impact the magic?’ Hermione piped up, her eyes darting from Fleur to Rosie and back again. Rosie turned to look Hermione in the eye. 

‘Miss Granger…’ 

‘Hermione.’ 

‘Hermione. You are familiar with the theory behind memory charms, I assume?’ 

‘Yes. Of course. The charm impacts the brain cells, it deceives them into retrieving false memories. It creates a kind of false hippocampus and redirects the synapses to retrieve memories from the fictional repository.’ 

‘Spot on,’ said Rosie, impressed. 

‘But it’s magic,’ continued Hermione, panicking. ‘It’s not physical, it’s not material - how can it be impacted by a car accident?’ 

Rosie conjured an image of an enlarged brain, a spectre that rose just above their eyeline, looking as though it were woven from light itself. The fine lines of the brain folds glowed gold, and tiny beads of light pulsed along each one, a fragile ecosystem of nerve and impulse. 

‘We’ve seen this a lot since the war,’ said Rosie, as she waved her wand. Red veins of light entwined with the gold, before each individual strand turned red. ‘That’s the memory charm adhering there. And this,’ the channels of light glowed even brighter for a moment, seeming to contract and release, leaving a mix of lines, many purely red, some golden, and some a muddle of red and gold, ‘this is a relatively new phenomena, that comes after a physical trauma. Cropped up a lot lately. From what I understand, it’s linked to Muggle medicine… so the magic adheres to the brain’s transmitters, like you said Hermione, but in the case of head trauma, the magic shifts deeper, knitting into the mind at a much more essential level. So the red lines are the falsified memories, they’re entrenched now, and the mixed lines, they’re a jumble of truth and untruth. I think it’s highly likely that this is what has happened to Helen.’ 

Ron felt the scars on his arms tingle, faded though they were. His interactions with the brain at the Department of Mysteries had done nothing to assuage his unease with magic and medicine that tampered with the human brain. Staring at the enlarged brain, which Rosie quickly vanished, he was unsettled by the whole thing. 

Fleur nodded. ‘We ‘ave numerous cases of wizards and witches concussed in battle while being jinxed or cursed. Never for so complex a memory charm though.’ 

‘But if it’s known, then it’s fixable!’ Ron said. Hermione was silent, her face unreadable. 

‘Ron… it eez not that simple,’ said Fleur. ‘The complexity of the charm was remarkable but the force of the trauma will ‘ave been devastating for such a finely wrought enchantment. It eez like…’ 

‘Like a shattered mirror,’ said Rosie. ‘To piece things back together from infinitesimally small particles… it’s quite a challenge. You saw how small those particles of gold and red were.’ 

‘Can it be done?’ Paul asked, hollowly, staring at his wife’s expressionless face. 

‘It can certainly be tried,’ said Rosie, determination in her voice. Fleur nodded emphatically. 

‘We will need to see how much memory has been lost. It may be that only a couple of months have been affected, or it may be more. We just can’t know right now. The process is long - we want to be as thorough as possible.’ Ron could see Hermione’s eye’s watering, while Paul nodded stoically. 

‘And will this be er… magic?’ Paul asked, awkwardly. 

Rosie shook her head. ‘Not entirely. I’m trained in Muggle medicine, primarily, but Fleur will be helping me research. We will ask that you consider allowing your wife to stay with us here at St Mungo’s, given the nature of her condition and the circumstances of the memory alteration.’ 

Paul hesitated. Tears streamed down Hermione’s face. He looked to his daughter and asked her, ‘what do you think?’. The small act of his trust in her opinion seemed to take her by surprise, and she wiped her cheeks. 

‘I think Mum should stay here,’ she said quietly. ‘I think she needs these solutions, and magic. And Fleur… training or not, Fleur is an excellent Healer. She was for me.’ 

Fleur flushed and looked proudly at Hermione. Ron could tell her father wanted to ask more, but realised this wasn’t the time - instead, he turned to Rosie. 

‘Alright then, Dr Fraser. Let’s give this a go.’ 

A brief smile crossed Rosie’s face, and she nodded. 

‘I think our best bet is to keep her under for tonight, allow the body to rest and heal from the shock of the reversal. It would also allow you—’ and at this point she indicated the Grangers and Ron with a suddenly stern expression, ‘to rest. She needs you strong.’ 

‘Is there somewhere I can sleep here?’ Paul asked, his voice determined. ‘I’m not leaving her. Not like this.’ 

‘I’m sure we can transfigure a bed for you, Dr Granger,’ said Fleur quickly. 

‘I’d like…’ Hermione began but her father put his hand on her arm. 

‘No, Hermione. You need to go back to the Burrow tonight. Molly and Arthur are expecting you and you need real rest, with people around you. I… I just need some time to myself.’ 

Hermione looked as though she had been slapped. Paul moved over to her and knelt before her. 

‘Darling, I love you. I just need some time. That’s all. It’s a lot. Everything that has happened - it’s a lot. And you need to process that too. We will be back together tomorrow, and you can er… owl me, if you need to.’ He turned to look at Ron. 

‘Come on Hermione,’ Ron said gently, helping her stand. ‘Your dad’s right. We’ll be back before you know it.’ 

Hermione leaned over her mother and whispered something that nobody else could hear before kissing her forehead. With a look of renewed determination, she hugged her father, thanked Rosie and took Ron’s hand, heading for the door. Fleur accompanied them to the Floo. 

‘We will take good care of ‘zem,’ Fleur said earnestly, ‘both of ‘zem. You must go now and let Molly feed you, and let Ron take care of you, _oui_? I know ‘zat you are strong, Hermione. You can do ‘zis. But better together, _non_?’ 

Hermione nodded. 

Together they stepped into the green flames for the final time that day, and Ron called out ‘The Burrow’. 


	4. A Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Burrow, Hermione doubts herself in the midnight hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the dynamic duo of @bounding-heart and @torestoreamends.

**[Hermione]**

It was long past midnight by the time Harry had snuck downstairs to Ginny’s room and Hermione had gone upstairs to brush her teeth. When she pushed the door to Ron’s room open, she paused for a lingering look as he lay back on the bed, staring at the sky through the skylight, arms behind his head. She felt her heart soften ever so slightly somewhere beneath all the calcifying pain of the last day. At last count, she thought, they’d been awake for over forty hours. 

She quietly placed her toothbrush back into the beaded bag. It seemed surreal to think that the last time they’d gotten ready for bed like this, they had been in Australia. She clambered into the bed beside him and tugged his arm down around her shoulders. Ron squeezed her close to him. He clicked the Deluminator to turn the lights off, and they lay in silence for a few moments. 

Her mind was suddenly so full of urgent and panicked thoughts that she knew sleep was only a distant possibility, despite the bone-aching exhaustion she felt in her body. She felt Ron lying awake beside her, and knew that he wasn’t in the mood for sleeping either. Tentatively, she broke the silence. 

‘Ron… do you ever think about everything we’ve done?’ She whispered into the dark.

‘How do you mean?’ He replied.

‘The things we had to do in the war. All the people we hurt. The things that happened. What we were capable of.’

‘We did our best to be good, Hermione,’ he said quietly, his arm tightening around her shoulder.

‘I know we did. But I still think about it. I think about it all the time.’

‘So do I, sometimes. And then, then I think about other stuff.’

‘What other stuff?’

‘This. You. Being here with you.’

‘Does it help?’

‘Always. It always helps.’

‘What I did Ron… what I’ve done… I can’t make it make sense now. I just look at my mum in that bed and I lose sight of it, of everything I thought I was doing right.’

She was crying again, her tears collecting on his old Cannons t-shirt. She felt the bed shift as Ron sat up. His hand touched her cheek as he moved her to face him. 

‘Hermione, you did what you thought was right. You saved their lives. That’s no mean feat. Yeah okay, the method was dodgy but we all did dodgy things didn’t we? Harry used the Imperius… I blasted that person out of the way in Diagon Alley... I would have done more. If it meant saving someone I loved, saving you.’

‘But it was _wrong_, Ron, it was without their consent… And now it’s done something so destructive that I can’t get her back. And I think I deserve it.’

He let go of her cheek and took both her hands in his, turning them upwards. Gently, he traced her palms and she closed her eyes momentarily.

‘Hermione, I love you but you’re going a bit Harry on me here. This isn’t about you, or punishing you. Not like that. You did something to help and it did - this, this is just a complication. We will get through this. Your mum will get through this. We’ve fought too much not to.’ His words hung in the air for a moment and Hermione bit her lip, gazing at their joined hands. When she spoke, her voice was small, and hollow.

‘What if she doesn’t get better Ron? What if this is it, forever?’

A lifetime ago she would have presented those kind of words, the injection of doubt, as a challenge, an invitation to a fight. But tonight, Hermione was looking to Ron for answers and reassurance that wouldn’t have any meaning coming from somewhere else.

‘Then we take it day by day,’ he said slowly. ‘We support your dad, we visit your mum, we spend every waking moment that we can looking for a solution, and we live our lives in the new normal. We do that, and we do it together.’

Hermione stared at him, and the stark difference in Ron since he’d come back to the tent that night. Every element that she knew had been there before - his loyalty, kindness, pragmatism - they all shone now, under the confidence of someone who knew themselves. She moved so that her hands now enclosed his and pulled them up to her face. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his hands, trying to express the potent mix of pain, love and gratitude that she felt in that moment, and the slight sliver of hope that had emerged in her heart at his words. He pulled her close and for a moment, Hermione let herself forget.


	5. A New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds herself an unexpected friend, while life returns to a semblance of normal at the Burrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderful @brief-and-dreamy and @torestoreamends for being a wonderful brace of betas.

The smell of bacon roused Hermione from a deep sleep. It took her a moment to figure out where she was – the orange glow of Ron’s childhood curtains in the morning light and the soft flannel of his old bedsheets felt foreign. Her only anchor to familiarity was Ron himself, her back pressed into his chest, his breathing deep against her back, their arms twined together. She was reticent to wake him if he wasn’t already, but his stomach betrayed him with a resonant rumble, and Hermione shifted round to look at him, her eyes bleary.  
  
‘Hey,’ he said, his lips quirking a little.  
  
‘Hi,’ she replied, blinking in the light. ‘What time is it?’  
  
He cast a glance to the old clock on his bedside. ‘Quarter to ten.’  
  
‘Shit.’   
  
She sat up quickly, reaching for her clothes, the panic and anxiety of the last few days flooding back through her veins. Ron looked taken aback by both her swearing and her sudden wakefulness. He grabbed her arm, looking at her questioningly.  
  
‘Dad… he’ll be wondering where we are,’  
  
‘I’ll send Fleur a Patronus,’ said Ron, ‘we can’t go anywhere without breakfast, and your dad will be ok for another hour.’  
  
She opened her mouth to argue, but hesitated when her own stomach growled in objection.   
  
‘Fine,’ she said, ‘but just an hour.’  
  
‘Just an hour,’ He kissed her softly on the mouth, then drew her into a hug. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

She nodded, squeezed his knee (she noticed that he shivered slightly at the touch of her hand on his bare leg) and stood up from the bed.   
  
When they arrived in the kitchen, Ron grinned at the sight of a platter of breakfast food on the table, and his mother busily toasting bread. Ginny was poring over the Daily Prophet, absently stirring milk into a cup of coffee, while Harry hastily signed off a letter. They looked up and smiled at Ron and Hermione, and nudged two chairs away from the table to allow them to sit. Harry summoned two mugs and poured them both a cup of tea. As Hermione watched him fix their cups without a word, she was transported for a moment back to spring mornings in Perkins’ old tent and the bizarre optimism she’d felt after Ron’s return, even amidst all the hopelessness of the Horcrux hunt and her icy demeanour.  
  
Molly turned and levitated the toast onto the burnished old toast rack on the table. She paused to ruffle Ron’s hair and give Hermione’s shoulder a squeeze.  
  
‘Good morning you two,’ she said brightly, ‘Ginny said you’d slept in, Hermione.’  
  
Ginny winked very subtly at her, and Ron’s ears flushed.  
  
‘Um, yes Mrs Weasley, I was very tired.’  
  
‘No wonder! All that travel. Well, here’s a small breakfast to keep you going in the meantime, I expect you’ll need to Apparate to St Mungo’s soon but only if you’re feeling up to it dear, Ron looked ever so peaky yesterday and I really wouldn’t want you to Splinch yourselves…’  
  
Ron’s arm shifted beside her, as he rubbed his shoulder absently. She knew he was feeling the ridges of the scar tissue under his t-shirt. There was so much his mum didn’t know about the last year, so much still to tell her amidst the mayhem of their new normal. Molly sounded cheerful enough but Hermione could tell from the tremble in her hand and the bags under her eyes that she hadn’t slept. The sound of her fussing would have driven them all mad this time last year, but there was something oddly comforting about it now, though she couldn’t focus in on Molly’s words at all. She felt a stab in her stomach at the thought that she might not hear her own mother fuss ever again. That wave of guilt was deepened by the realisation that it had now been five weeks since Fred’s funeral.  
  
She could tell by Harry’s expression that his thoughts were in a similar place. Looking for a distraction, she gestured to his parchment.  
  
‘What are you up to?’ she asked, attempting a smile.  
  
‘Oh, I’ve been seeing Teddy a bit since you’ve been away,’ said Harry, smiling slightly, ‘and I’m just checking in with Andromeda if we can see them again this weekend. You should come! He’s a very happy baby. And I’m getting a bit better at holding him properly.’  
  
Ginny snickered. ‘Yes, once we’d established he wasn’t a Quaffle or a fragile vase, he settled in quite nicely,’ she remarked, grinning over at Harry who smiled back in a punch-drunk kind of way. There was something so oddly intimate about the idea of Harry and Ginny and Teddy all together – Hermione felt a strange twinge in her stomach at how things were changing. She examined her forkful of eggs, and forced herself to eat a little.   
  
‘What’s Andromeda like?’ Ron asked, his mouth full of toast. ‘Does she look like… well. You know. _Her_.’  
  
Molly stiffened behind them and Ron seemed to realise his error. She turned round and gave them a brief smile that didn’t reach her eyes, before excusing herself to go and feed the chickens.  
  
‘Nice, Ron,’ Ginny said, rolling her eyes.  
  
‘Oh eff off,’ he retorted, throwing a rolled up napkin at her, which she lazily incinerated with her wand, mid-air.   
  
‘She’s nice, actually,’ said Harry, ‘there’s definitely a similarity in looks but she’s like a softer version. And she’s definitely nothing like her in personality. Except maybe a little…’  
  
‘Haughty.’ Ginny supplied, getting up to levitate her mug to the sink and stretch her arms.  
  
‘Yeah, haughty. Like Sirius was. But she’s ok.’ Harry had stood up too, having finished the dregs of his tea. ‘Come this weekend, if you like. We’re going to go to the beach, I think. Teddy likes sand.’  
  
‘I’ll need to see how… how things are with Mum,’ Hermione responded, eyes cast down at her plate.

Harry nodded, but Ginny walked over and placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be good to get out and about for a bit,’ she said, ‘I’m sure she’d understand.’

Hermione didn’t know what to say. Ron stepped in, taking both her plate and his to the sink manually. ‘It’s a great offer. We’ll see what we can do,’ Ron said. Hermione placed her hand on Ginny’s and squeezed, hoping to express her gratitude through the gesture. Ginny seemed to understand and moved towards the back door, Harry in her wake.  
  
‘St Mungo’s?’ Ron asked, offering Hermione his hand.  
  
‘St Mungo’s,’ she replied numbly, feeling entirely unprepared for what was ahead of her.

  
  
\---

  
  
Of all the occurrences of the last week, Hermione had to admit this was one of the strangest. She tried to imagine what she would say to someone if they had told her that one day she would be sitting in the St Mungo’s canteen listening to medical advice from Fleur Delacour, of all people.   
  
She was more perplexed by the fact that she didn’t hate it.  
  
There wasn’t much that was funny about any of it, really, but Hermione found herself fighting a strange urge to laugh. She decided to take sugar in her coffee. As she stirred the second packet into the dark, steaming mug of liquid, she wondered if this was just another change distancing herself from her parents, who had strict rules about such things. In some ways, it was more about distancing herself from the war – they were safe now, they didn’t lack for the basics, and she could take a moment to enjoy the sweetness of the coffee, as much as she could with her mother still asleep and the guilt weighing on her chest like a vice.   
  
Not much had changed when they’d arrived at Helen’s room this morning, with the exception that Arthur Weasley had been there, talking with Hermione’s father.

‘I’ve come to help, if I can,’ he had said, looking up at them, and Hermione had been stricken for the first time with just how like his son he looked. She had nodded. Her father was sitting with a cup of tea, and listening intently to Arthur, clearly grateful for a familiar face. He’d greeted Hermione with a tight hug, explained that her mother had a peaceful night, and that the Healers wanted her to wake up naturally this morning to assess some basic cognitive functions. Hermione had nodded and before she knew it, Fleur had whisked her away while Ron stood awkwardly between their two fathers.  
  
She set her teaspoon down on the table and looked up, meeting Fleur’s gaze. Here they were, in a rare lull in the canteen crowds, that sweet spot between the morning rush for coffee and rolls, and the start of lunch. Hermione watched as a mother with two small children cut up a piece of cake for them to share. The simple maternal act twisted at her heart and she took a sip of the scalding coffee to distract herself.  
  
She noticed that Fleur was looking at her expectantly, as though she had asked her something. Had she? Hermione honestly couldn’t recall.   
  
‘’ermione,’ said Fleur softly, ‘are you listening?’  
  
‘I’m sorry Fleur, what did you say?’ she responded, sheepishly.

Fleur didn’t seem to mind. Hermione watched as she twisted a loose strand of hair around her fingers. It was twisted up into a messy knot, held in place by her wand, but it still looked incredible. Hermione knew now that there was so much more to Fleur than her appearance, but she still sometimes felt the crawling sense of her own inadequacy in light of Fleur’s Veela charms, and she was certain her hair would never quite attain the same effortless glamour.  
  
‘I was asking if you ‘ad spoken much to Molly?’  
  
‘Not really. She doesn’t much like what I’ve done, to be honest,’ Hermione admitted, her gaze on the teaspoon.  
  
‘Well, she does not much like many things, Molly,’ Fleur said, exasperation in her voice, ‘but she does love you. She was not cruel yesterday, I ‘ope?’  
  
‘Oh Merlin no,’ said Hermione quickly. ‘She was lovely, much nicer than I’d expected. I just… I feel guilty. About everything. And about everything she’s going through too, I don’t want to add on.’ Both women were silent as their thoughts drifted to Fred.  
  
‘’as Ron spoken much to you?’ Fleur asked, quietly.  
  
‘A little, in Australia. When we were searching and we had these huge gaps of time, we would talk a little. He seems better than I expected but I know he’s still broken up. I feel rotten that I’ve put this on him now too.’   
  
Fleur let out a sigh.  
  
‘’Ermione there is nowhere that young man wants to be more ‘zan where you are. You do not remember what ‘e was like when you arrived with us back in April. ‘E was demented, reckless, his hands were bleeding and all ‘e could do was make sure you were ok. Perhaps ‘zis, supporting you with your _maman_, ‘zis is something that will ‘elp him too, _non_?’  
  
Hermione nodded, biting her lip and trying to ignore the rising panic in her chest at the thought of Malfoy Manor. She focussed on her breathing, grounding herself in the heat of the mug she held, and the clatter of the canteen around her. You are safe. You are here.  
  
‘And Bill?’ Hermione asked, tentatively, feeling slightly unsure if she was allowed to ask such a thing. She didn’t know if they were quite friends yet, which seemed oddly childish after all they’d been through. She had found out, through the days spent under Fleur’s watch at Shell Cottage, that Fleur often felt lonely and despite appearances, she didn’t have many friends here in England. Still, Hermione couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Fleur would have to say to her.  
  
‘Bill ‘eez… well, ‘e ‘eez Bill. ‘E is angry, angry that he did not protect ‘is little brother, angry that ‘is family suffer and angry that ‘e survived. ‘e feels such great responsibility for ‘zem all. And I… I cannot ‘elp, I fear.’ Fleur smiled ruefully. ‘So I come ‘ere, and ‘e goes to Gringotts’ (Hermione felt another twist of guilt, and fidgeted in her seat) ‘and when we come ‘ome, sometimes we talk, and sometimes we do not. I do not think ‘e has slept since the funeral. But ‘e is coming back to me, in ‘is own way. He and Charlie went flying yesterday. It seemed to ‘elp.’  
  
Fleur rolled her eyes disbelievingly, and Hermione laughed.  
  
‘Ron’s like that,’ she said, ‘he cheered right up in Australia once he got a local wizard chatting about Quidditch. I don’t get it, to be honest.’  
  
‘Nor I. Oh, ‘zis reminds me, ‘ave you heard much from Viktor?’  
  
‘Not since before the war. Is he ok?’ Hermione wasn’t sure she could take any more bad news.  
  
‘_Oui_, I received an owl from him shortly after ze Battle. ‘E will play again ‘zis season.’ She quirked an eyebrow at Hermione in amusement. ‘Ron will not like ‘zis, I think’  
  
‘No, I expect he won’t,’ Hermione smiled softly, thinking about the truths they’d shared in Australia and the things they’d done together, things that Viktor had never had a chance at. She blushed slightly, as she caught Fleur smirking.  
  
‘Oh do shut up,’ she grumbled. Fleur laughed, the sound tinkling lightly on the air. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, before Fleur cleared her throat awkwardly.  
  
‘’ermione, your mother…’ she began, pausing as Hermione flinched slightly. ‘Your mother, she will be ok. I believe ‘zis and I believe Rosie will find a way. You are not alone. We are ‘ere, she will not be lost. I promise you ‘zis.’ She grabbed Hermione’s hand, and Hermione gripped it back as tears started to fall down her cheeks.  
  
‘But I think ze best chance we ‘ave is to work together.’  
  
Hermione looked up, surprised.  
  
‘Together? After what I’ve done? To her? To them?’  
  
‘Oui. You managed some incredible magic, ‘ermione. Yes, ‘zere were problems but you are by far one of ‘ze smartest, most well-read witches I ‘ave ever met, and Rosie will need you. You – you ‘ave done so much. You kept those boys alive ‘ermione.’  
  
‘We kept each other alive,’ she whispered, brushing her cheeks with her left sleeve. ‘I didn’t… it wasn’t…’  
  
‘Merlin, you Brits you cannot take compliments! _Mon dieu_, I do not know, honestly. You will help me ‘ermione, _oui_?’ Fleur’s eyes shone with a plea that cut through Hermione’s sorrow and into the part of her soul that burned to act, to help and to work once more. She squeezed Fleur’s hand, which had come to rest on hers.  
  
She heard herself say yes.


	6. A Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron spends some time with Hermione's father. Dr Fraser opens up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the amazing beta triumvirate of @Brief_And_Dreamy, @torestoreamends and @hillnerd.
> 
> More Arthur Weasley to come, I promise.

[Ron]

Ron was starting to wonder if he would ever feel anything other than awkward around Paul Granger.

They had spent a lot of time together in the last fortnight, but usually with Hermione there, as a buffer. Sometimes his dad was there too, and that eased things, but Ron still felt there was discomfort on both sides when they were left alone. 

He’d had a lot of time to observe Hermione’s father – he had only met him briefly up to this point, at King’s Cross or in Diagon Alley back before second year. Paul was an inch or so shorter than Ron, and his skin was dark like Hermione’s. He wore his hair very short – it was dashed with grey. He pushed his glasses up his nose when he was thinking deeply and had inadvertently grown a short beard in the time they had been back in the UK. He had a thoughtful, deep voice, and spoke quietly, even when upset. He took his tea with milk (‘just a dash’) and tended to drink coffee only in the mornings. 

The strangest things were the similarities he could see between Paul and his daughter. Hermione had his brown eyes and knitted brow when she was thinking, and Ron wondered if that was why he found it so difficult to make eye contact with him. Both father and daughter nodded as they listened to people, and on more than one occasion Ron had seen Paul grab a notebook and take notes when Rosie or Fleur was talking, reminding him strongly of hours spent in the library with Hermione. Unsurprisingly, Paul read voraciously, and a small pile of books was growing on the windowsill in Helen’s room. 

What kept Ron on edge was the constant feeling of discomfort, knowing that while Paul had been in Australia, oblivious to his life back in England, Ron’s relationship with Hermione had only deepened. He’d heard horror stories from his brothers about meeting girlfriend’s parents, and even Arthur fidgeted slightly when talking about meeting Ron’s grandfather, Hieronymous Prewett. He and Hermione had gotten so close in Australia and had done so many things together, things that made Ron’s ears burn and his heart pound in the most fantastic way — but he had a horrible feeling that Paul knew exactly what they had been up to in between searching. He hadn’t missed Paul’s arched eyebrow as Hermione had taken his hand or his slight cough when Ron wrapped an arm around her waist. He wanted so badly to be good enough for Hermione, not just in her eyes, but in her family’s. He had no idea where he stood with Paul.

When Fleur asked Hermione to join her for some basic tests on her mother, to see if her presence would impact Helen’s responses, Ron had hesitated. Neither he nor Paul could be there with Hermione in case the waters were muddied by their presence. There was nothing to be done other than to head down to the canteen together, as it was lunchtime and (to Ron) it was clear that food was on the agenda. As they approached the canteen, Paul paused.

‘Do you fancy going out for a change?’ he asked, somewhat awkwardly.

‘Oh… uh, sure,’ Ron replied quickly.

‘I’m a little tired of the coffee here,’ Paul admitted, scratching his beard.

‘Yeah, it’s not amazing.’

‘I don’t er… know exactly where we are though?’

‘Oh! Okay. Well, I think if we use the Mug – the London entrance, we come out on Oxford Street?’ Ron supplied, his arm flailing towards the corridor leading to the exit.

‘Great. Let’s do that.’

They headed towards the door in relatively companionable silence. Ron hid a smile at Paul’s bemusement as they emerged out onto the bustle of the central London street. Once he had his bearings, Paul seemed to know where he was going and he led them to a small coffee shop on a side street. It was a bustling Italian place with flags of red, green and white hanging above the small wooden booths. They took a seat and Paul ordered two coffees.

‘I used to come here when I was training, after my degree,’ Paul said, smiling at the décor. ‘It hasn’t changed much.’

‘Did you do all your studies here?’ Ron asked, half-curious, half simply hoping to have something to talk about.

‘No. Funnily enough, we – Helen and I – we went to university in Scotland. That’s where we met,’ Paul smiled sadly. Ron marvelled a little at this coincidence. Hermione had never mentioned it. She hadn’t spoken much about her parents over the years, seeming to keep her home life separate from her Hogwarts life.

‘It wasn’t really near where you studied, of course,’ said Paul, ‘but we had a good few years there. We were delighted when we knew Hermione would be in Scotland. We loved it there. But Helen’s parents were down here, and it made more sense to finish training…’ He trailed off as the coffee arrived.

‘Thank you,’ Ron added hastily. He didn’t know much about coffee, St Mungo’s and Hogwarts aside, but he was fairly certain this was a very good one, particularly in comparison to the filter machines they’d become used to. He fumbled with his cup and took a sip.

‘You must have missed Hermione while she was at school,’ Ron said. ‘There were so many of us, I think Mum enjoyed the peace to be honest.’ 

Paul laughed. ‘I’m sure she missed you all. We certainly did miss Hermione. But it helped, knowing that she was with friends. She’d never really… hit it off with anyone at her primary school.’

Ron shifted awkwardly, thinking of just how awful he’d been to Hermione when he’d first met her. He wished he could take it back.

‘She stopped telling us things, though,’ Paul said quietly. ‘After that skiing holiday, when she left, she just started distancing herself more and more. I realise now that she was protecting us… but it doesn’t make it easier. We thought we were losing her.’

Ron wasn’t sure what to say to that. He thought about how distraught Hermione had been last summer when she had turned up at the Burrow after leaving her childhood home for the last time. He remembered the photos she kept in her beaded bag, tucked inside old books. He thought about Australia and the immense strain she’d put herself under every day, researching, calling, walking, searching. He wasn’t great with words but he felt he should try to explain. His chest ached as he thought about the things they’d had to do over the last year, just to survive.

‘She missed you. So much. I could see it. She just… she had to. We all had to.’ 

‘I know that now. Your dad’s explained a lot to me and he’s been brilliant Ron; especially given what you’ve all been through,’ Paul nodded to Ron, with sympathy in his eyes. Ron couldn’t handle the thought of Fred at that moment and dropped his gaze to the table.

‘He’s done a lot,’ said Ron, ‘and he wasn’t best pleased with us either, when we left. Nor was Mum. She was livid, if I’m honest. Dad accepted it, in his own quiet way, but she never did’

‘I can’t imagine that was easy.’

‘It wasn’t. But Dr Granger…’

‘Ron, please. It’s Paul.’

‘Sorry, yes, Paul… We didn’t have a choice. We just didn’t. We had to help Harry. It had to be us.’

Paul ran a spoon around the rim of his cup. It rang out softly under the bustle of the café.

‘It’s just going to take time to get used to the idea of it all, I think,’ he said softly. Ron nodded. He had nearly finished his coffee and his stomach growled slightly. Paul nudged the menu towards him.

‘I can recommend the sandwiches,’ he said lightly. Ron looked at him quizzically.

‘Don’t you need…’

‘No, I always order the same thing,’ Paul replied. ‘The number four.’

‘Sounds great,’ said Ron, ‘I’m not fussy.’

‘Hermione had mentioned that you are partial to food,’ Paul smiled.

‘Yeah… it’s a bit of a problem to be honest, drives her barmy.’

‘Sadly, Hermione is not really partial to _ cooking _,’ Paul chided gently. Ron swept to her defense.

‘She did okay while we were out there! Her mushrooms were…’ he faltered. Paul was laughing. 

‘Helen’s specialty is eggs on toast.’ 

Ron grinned. ‘Do you cook?’ he asked Paul, who had gestured to the waiter for two sandwiches.

‘I try. My father taught me some, before I left home. The Grangers aren’t really a culinary family, but we get by. You may need to brush up your skills though, young man, if your intentions are what I think they are.’

Ron felt his face burn. Paul’s tone was not unkind, but Ron could tell he was being tested in some way. He decided to opt for honesty.

‘I’ll ask Mum. I want to be as good as I can. I, er… I really care about Hermione, Paul.’

‘That much is evident. Not everyone would come to Australia to retrieve their girlfriend’s parents. Some might even relish the freedom.’

Ron was fairly certain that Paul was amused, but he felt pressure to prove himself nonetheless. 

‘She needed… Well no, Hermione doesn’t need anyone, not really, but you know what she’s like. And there was nowhere I wanted to be more than with her. She’s bloody brilliant.’

‘She is. I assure you, she gets it from her mother.’

Two hot sandwiches had arrived on the table before them. Ron gazed appreciatively at the melted cheese, and the two men sat in silence for a moment as they began to eat.

‘Did you enjoy Australia?’ Paul asked. Ron took a moment to swallow a large mouthful of sandwich, trying to let go of the sudden, vivid thoughts of Hermione and the fleeting moments of intimacy they’d shared on their trip. A particularly potent impression of Hermione breathing into his ear and hissing with pleasure popped into his mind, unbidden, and Ron found himself worrying that Paul may be a Muggle Legilimens. He coughed.

‘It was interesting! I’ve not travelled that much, really, so it was wild to see a completely new country. We went to Egypt a few years ago… It was nothing like Melbourne though. Except maybe the sunshine. That was incredible.’

‘Yes. I liked that too,’ Paul said, looking out the window at the grey London day. ‘Though the weather has been getting a little better, your father tells me.’

‘Yeah, the uh… Dementors,’ Ron lowered his voice a little. ‘They were screwing it up. It was dark for months. Even in summer.’

‘And they’re gone now?’

‘We think so. Some are back under Ministry control, as much as they can be, and others seemed to just… disappear. They don’t have anything to rally to now. I don’t know if that just means they’re dormant or what. My brother Charlie, he’s doing a bit of work on that side of things…’

‘He’s the… zoologist?’ Paul raised his eyebrows pointedly, and looked over his shoulder.

‘Right yeah. Works with… big lizards. But he’s been back here since the battle and Fred…’ Ron stopped short, his gaze suddenly fixed on his plate, the food tasteless in his mouth. Paul cleared his throat.

‘It’s a terrible thing, Ron, what you’re going through.’ 

Ron nodded. Before Paul had mentioned his father, he hadn’t thought about Fred in a couple of hours. Somehow, that made him feel worse.

‘I lost my dad when Hermione was very little. Suddenly. Heart attack. It… it doesn’t ever stop hurting, I’m afraid, but it does get easier. It just takes time.’

Ron felt the fingers on his wand hand flex convulsively.

‘I know. It’s just hard. He was… infuriating. But also brilliant. And now he’s gone.’

There was a beat of silence.

‘I can’t even imagine. We always wanted that for Hermione, a sibling, but it just didn’t happen that way.’

Ron tried to picture Hermione as a sister to someone. He found himself thinking immediately of Harry.

‘Well, she kind of found one in Harry I think,’ he said, smiling softly.

‘Yes, so I’m told. Taciturn chap, isn’t he?’ Paul mused.

‘Grumpy git, more like.’ 

Ron was delighted when Paul let out a booming laugh.

‘Well, yes, that’s one way of putting it. After all he’s been through, I suppose it’s understandable. I should like to know him better...’

Ron hesitated. The distance between them was decreasing, he was sure of it, but he still wasn’t certain that he could take the liberty to ask what was on his mind. He chewed the last of his sandwich absently, and wiping his hands on a napkin, decided to go ahead.

‘Paul... are you still angry with her? Because she really was doing what she thought was right. I want you to know that, like _ really _ know that. Because I don’t think she can live with herself if you don’t.’

One of the things Ron liked about Paul was that he thought before he spoke. It was reassuring. He looked at Ron directly (those brown eyes were not helping the tension in his chest) and took a beat before answering.

‘It’s hard, Ron. Having your autonomy taken away from you like that. It’s a bizarre feeling. And to have it done by someone you love and trust implicitly… it is a violation. And Helen being how she is, and the implications that has… I’m not going to lie, it is hard not be angry, frustrated with Hermione, with the car accident, with the world.’ He stopped and looked out of the window for a moment, a darkness passing over his expression. It softened within as a family walked past the window, the youngest child trailing a yellow balloon.

‘But when I look at Hermione, I just see my girl, my little girl who would do anything to help the people she cares about, and I know in my heart that she meant well. I will get there, we all will, but for now, we need to focus on Helen and being back here and getting through this together. And I include you in that.’

Ron was taken aback.

‘Er… thank you?’

‘No really, Ron, what you’ve done… for her, for us. You and your family – it’s been above and beyond. I feel better knowing she has you. Which is not something I ever expected to feel about a partner of Hermione, but here we are.’ Paul smiled ruefully. 

‘I… I’ll do my best to live up to that,’ Ron said, heart in his throat.

‘I know,’ Paul said simply. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I think an hour has gone by – shall we head back?’ He lay down a couple of banknotes on the table.

‘Sure,’ Ron responded, ‘let me get this though.’ He reached for his wallet, hoping that there was still some Muggle money in there. Paul waved his hand away.

‘Really Ron. It’s fine.’ Seeing his frustrated face, Paul added, ‘you can get the next one.’

Ron was surprised to find that the thought of a next time didn’t fill him with dread. Together, they headed back to the odd clothing store façade that served as St Mungo’s entrance, back to Hermione.

* * *

When they arrived back in the room, Helen was asleep once more. Hermione was sitting by her side, her feet propped up on the edge of the bed, her brow furrowed in an expression Ron had come to associate with deep thought and problem solving. When they walked in she smiled sadly at them.

‘Not much has changed,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s aware she’s in London, but she’s not sure why, and she still doesn’t… Well, I’m still just another Healer.’

Ron squeezed her into a tight hug, which she reciprocated. Her father fussed with Helen’s pillows for a moment before the door opened once more. 

Rosie walked in, carrying a tray with a carafe of water and some glasses. 

‘It’s quite hot today and I thought you might appreciate these.’ She lay the tray down on a table at the foot of the bed.

‘Fleur just caught me there – I understand we had a little bit of progress today, Hermione?’

‘Yes. A better sense of geography but still no… no recognition.’ Hermione’s breath hitched slightly.

‘That’s to be expected. Let’s focus on the wins: she’s staying awake longer, she’s retaining some information, despite the confusion, and her motor skills are intact. These are all good signs, Hermione,’ Rosie smiled at her, and Ron appreciated that this was a smile that reached her eyes. You didn’t get many of those in St Mungo’s. 

He realised he knew very little about Rosie, despite the hours they’d spent talking with her over the last week.

‘Rosie, are you Scottish?’ Ron asked, impulsively. She turned to look at him quizzically, a piece of parchment from Helen’s chart in her hands.

‘I am indeed,’ she said, her attention on the paper once more, ‘one of the few at Hogwarts.’

‘Doc… er, Paul, was telling me that’s where he studied.’

Rosie looked over to Paul, smiling. ‘Oh that’s lovely! You’re dentists aren’t you? It must have been Dundee then?’

‘Yes, yes it was. Is that near you?’ Paul asked, seemingly grateful for something to talk about that wasn’t his wife’s condition.

‘It’s my hometown, of sorts,’ Rosie said as she placed the parchment back on the chart, and pulled up a seat beside them.

‘How do you mean?’ Ron blurted out, determined to take the pressure off Hermione, who was staring at her mother with her jaw set, barely listening. He took her hand in his, and rubbed it gently. She relaxed slightly, leaning into his side.

Rosie faltered. Ron noticed that she stammered slightly when she spoke about her own life.

‘It’s a bit… complicated. I grew up there, but both my parents were Muggles. So as things got worse in the wizarding world,’ (Ron noticed that she didn’t say ‘our world’) ‘they got worried. I couldn’t really hide from them what was happening. After I left Hogwarts – same year as your brother Charlie, actually...’

‘You know Charlie?’ Ron said, surprised that this hadn’t come up before.

‘I do – or at least I did. We were Potions deskmates. He was never that interested though – he liked to copy my notes when he could.’

Hermione let out a half-laugh. ‘Sounds about right.’

‘Oi!’ said Ron, elbowing her gently.

‘So after I left, my parents decided we were going to move as far away as we could. So we hid out the first few years in New Zealand.’

‘But you came back?’ Hermione asked, softly.

‘I did. When I heard Dumbledore had died, I couldn’t sit still any longer. I came back to London. Stayed at the Cauldron for a while. Spent half my time at St Bart’s and half here at St Mungo’s, training.’

‘Your parents are safe though?’ Paul asked.

‘From the war? Yes.’ Rosie paused, and her cheeks flushed. She seemed to struggle with something in her head. 

‘Only, my dad – he passed away. A stroke. They, ah, they couldn’t find me to tell me. I was in hiding at that point. I only found out after.’

There was a heavy silence. 

‘I’m so sorry Rosie,’ said Hermione quietly. 

‘So am I,’ she replied, her legs crossed and a hand resting under her chin.

‘Is your mum still…’

‘She’s still there. I hear from her now and again. My brother won’t speak to me though. Feels that I abandoned them. I suppose he’s not wrong.’ Rosie was speaking softly now, her cheeks red.

Ron shifted uncomfortably. Hermione squeezed his hand.

‘You did what you had to do,’ said Paul, in a very paternal voice. Rosie smiled sadly. 

‘I did. We all did.’ Her arm indicated the others in the room. After a beat, she stood up suddenly, and Ron had the distinct impression that she hadn’t intended to be quite as open with them as she had been. She caught his eye and smiled swiftly, this one not quite reaching her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something but her wand emitted a sharp whistle, and she made for the door.

‘Urgent call I’m afraid — I’ll be back later, for evening rounds.’ 

And with that, she was gone.

There was a thoughtful silence. Hermione rested her head on Ron’s shoulder. Ron watched Helen’s breathing, rising and falling, deep and even. She was sleeping a lot at the moment. Fleur and Rosie weren’t concerned – they felt it was as good a chance as any for her brain to start to heal. She seemed peaceful at least. 

Ron thought for a moment about Rosie and her family, the empathy he felt for both her decision to leave and her brother’s anger at her abandonment. He’d experienced both sides of that coin – he hoped that Hermione knew he was sorry for leaving them, that he always would be. He wanted to show her every day that he would always come back and always be there.

He wasn’t sure if he imagined it, at first but Hermione murmured the words so that only he could hear, as though she could read his mind.

‘You’re here now.’


	7. A Ball of Wool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione returns to quill and parchment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the bountiful brace of betas that are @torestoreamends and @boundingheart.

**[Hermione]**

If she squinted hard enough, she could just about make out who held the old red Quaffle. From her seat at the window, her friends were blurs as they swept through the air at the far end of the orchard. The sun was shining low in the afternoon sky, and Hermione watched as Mrs Weasley levitated some sheets into an old wicker basket, before taking them inside. 

It was cool in Ginny’s room, the window slightly ajar so that she could hear the distant whoops and shouts from the makeshift match. Crookshanks lay on his side in a patch of sunlight, and Hermione sat at Ginny’s old desk chair, her legs drawn up beneath her, rolling an inkless quill between her fingers. A glass half-full of pumpkin juice sat on the desk to her right, alongside a large, rectangular piece of parchment weighed down by ink bottles on each corner. A ball of old maroon wool, pilfered from Mrs Weasley, lay beside the parchment, a piece dangling down from the edge of the desk and brushing her knee. Her wand, recovered by the Ministry from Malfoy Manor, lay across the parchment.

She hadn’t written a thing. It scared her.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t been using her brain this last year. It was more that she’d been using it in a different way: ambitious, often reckless plans made in a pressure cooker of life or death. She’d yearned for the safety and comfort of a desk – the scratch of quill on ink, the space to think in abstract terms, to attain the ever elusive right answer, to breathe again. Now, thanks to Ginny, she had it, but the pressure seemed heavier than ever, and her fatigue and guilt seemed to stymy her at every turn. 

Closing her eyes, she could only see her mother, a flashing array of images: her lying still, awake and confused, fitting violently. She pressed the palms of her hands into her eye sockets and pressed firmly, determined to shake herself out of it. It had been a day since her last visit to her mother. They were experimenting with Hermione visiting unsupervised, to see if her appearances would jolt any kind of memory for Helen, who after a fortnight, seemed satisfied that Paul was her husband, albeit a husband who she felt was sadly confused about his name. She also believed that she was in a special private hospital for her migraines. The headaches still affected her, and Hermione wondered if that’s where the answer lay, in the vice of pain and confusion that overtook her mother’s head and rendered her incapable of speech for hours at a time.

\---

_You look nice today, dear, Helen had said when Hermione had walked in._ She had been wearing an old yellow button down shirt, and denim shorts. Her mother had picked that shirt when they’d been shopping in France, the summer before Dumbledore had died, and after Harry had lost Sirius. Hermione tried not to dwell on this way of quantifying time, the gaps between losses. She just hoped they’d shorten now. 

_Thanks Mu – Helen. How are you feeling?_ Her eyes flickered towards the clock on the wall. She had promised Rosie that she’d spend ten minutes with her mother each day. Helen was under the impression that Hermione was a hospital volunteer, a school-leaver interested in a career in medicine. Hermione wasn’t keen on looking into her mother’s eyes – the lack of recognition was too much to bear. She forced herself to glance up and smile, as she fussed with the flowers on the windowsill. 

_Quite well. I’ve still no idea why they’re keeping me in overnight. It’s a funny place, this one._ Helen frowned, looking perturbed. Hermione didn’t respond. She took a seat beside the bed and willed herself to remain calm for the next ten minutes. After that, she could leave, scream, cry, sleep, whatever she wanted. This – this had to be calm and gentle and gradual.

_How’s your young man?_ Helen asked, brightly, touching Hermione’s arm briefly. Hermione ached to lean into that touch, but leaned back instead. _The redhead? He’s been in once or twice. My husband says he’s your boyfriend._

He’s so much more than that, Hermione thought, a twist in her stomach, hearing as if from a great distance Ron’s screams from the basement in Malfoy Manor, feeling his arms around her on the beach at Shell Cottage, remembering the feeling of waking up that morning with their legs entangled. Her cheeks burned as Helen continued talking.

_He seems very nice. Very well-mannered. His father is some kind of government official, did you know that? He’s taken Wendell – or Paul, so they tell me – out to lunch. I suspect you know that though, you seem like you’ve been together for a long time! Did you meet at school?_

Hermione nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat. Seven more minutes. She could do this. She owed her mother this, at least. She couldn’t face talking about Ron with an effective stranger, so she looked around the room for distraction. She noticed, with a pang, a small pile of new books. Her father hadn’t been back to the Bristol house yet, but he had clearly made a trip to the nearest bookshop. Her mother’s old favourites were all there, in shiny new covers. _Jane Eyre_, _White Teeth_, _The Little Prince_. 

_Oh do you like books?_ Helen had caught her staring. _You should read this one, it’s my very favourite, though I can’t quite remember the end._ She reached for _Jane Eyre_ and handed it to Hermione, who took it wordlessly. Her own copy of the book was back at the Burrow, where she’d left it prior to the wedding. She had told herself there wasn’t space, and had left both the book and her Walkman on Ginny’s bed. She had no idea where they were now. That had been an old, battered copy, stained with tea, pages rippled with age. This was pristine, an artistic floral jacket holding a smooth, unsullied copy of a text she knew inside out. She knew it so well because her mother had given her it for her thirteenth birthday.

_I’ve actually… I’ve read this one before,_ Hermione managed, gently passing it back. _I love it._

Helen smiled happily, placing the book in her lap and stroking the cover gently.

_What else do you like to read? Medical texts I expect!_ She looked at Hermione searchingly. Hermione willed some recognition, some sense of kinship to emerge there. Nothing happened. She’d started to list the books she’d read as a child and before long, their time was up. 

She watched Rosie walk her mother out of the room for more tests, and felt nothing but empty.

\---

Hermione stretched out in her chair and placed the quill down on the desk. She sighed a little as Crookshanks leapt into her lap. Crookshanks chirped as he moved towards her, pressing his head to her hand, demanding attention. She pulled him closer and lost herself for a moment in the feel of his fur and the rhythmic rumble of his purr. She had missed Crookshanks, who had survived the year remarkably unscathed. Ginny had the foresight to take him with them when they had evacuated to Muriel’s, and he had spent a couple of months royally spoiled by Ron’s aunt, who it turned out had a soft spot for Kneazles.

‘I missed you, you know,’ she murmured, cupping his large orange face in both hands, looking into his yellow eyes. He purred happily in response, his eyes half-closed.

‘What do I do Crookshanks?’ She asked, idly reaching for her wand. He nestled into her lap, her legs crossed beneath him, and watched as she levitated the ball of wool into the air. Half-heartedly she conjured and contorted it into the shape of the brain that Rosie had drawn for them weeks ago. Crookshanks mewed plaintively as the mass of wool floated out of his reach. She watched it float, focussing on the knots in the centre, imagining them to be that magical place where the false memories were hidden and now entrenched. Listlessly, she began to untangle the knots, the strands weaving themselves into long, orderly pleats of wool.

‘If only it was this simple.’ She couldn’t imagine the intricacy of the magic needed to tease out the compounding in her mother’s brain. She had never felt so small and stupid as she did thinking about what she had unleashed on her parents with that Memory Charm, and what it had cost her. The disappointment and anger in Mrs Weasley’s eyes when she had found out what had happened to the Grangers had infuriated Ron, who had leapt to her defense. Hermione hadn’t the fight left in her – she felt contemptible, and guilty, and wrecked by it all.

She ached for the certainty of Hogwarts, for the solid trace of her steps to the library, of the answers held by books bound in old leather and magic. She longed to sit and pore for hours, to theorise and experiment and tease out the answers with that sense of accomplishment and the unique high they elicited. She was sure she was going back in a couple of months, but an unfamiliar fear and insecurity plagued her. Her mother’s accident was her first true failure, and its resonance was deep. Out in the world, Hermione could only focus on what had gone wrong – the missteps, the overlooked facts, the mistakes along the way. For the first time in her life, she felt stupid.

She wished she had the instincts of Harry or Ron. She wished she had the raw nerve to follow her gut and to seek solutions without being afraid of the right or wrong answers. She thought of Ron, following her voice to return to them, and of Harry, whose success was so tightly bound in love and courage. She thought briefly of Snape, and the love that had burned in him through the years of darkness and all that it had cost him.

Snape. She remembered his last moments, the smell of blood on the cold stone floor of the Shack, his eyes fixed on Harry’s. She remembered conjuring a bottle from nowhere, and watching the vapour emerge from his eyes and mouth, amassing in his tears. His story. His memories.

His _memories_.

Harry had spoken about what happened next, he had described the detail of what he saw in them, but Hermione hadn’t taken much in about the mechanics of it. She’d never seen the Pensieve or used it in any capacity. They were so rare, and she could barely recall what she’d read about them back in sixth year, when Harry described his meetings with Dumbledore. She remembered her father talking once about the memory on his computer, playing around with flat, square pieces of plastic while her mother fussed. Somehow the two seemed linked.

Could a Pensieve help? Could removing those memories help her mother? It couldn’t eradicate them entirely, she was sure that even Snape had relied primarily on Occlumency to keep his heart protected, but if she could just work out that mechanism…

Crookshanks let out a sudden cry and leapt for the wool. Hermione jumped, and the tangle fell on the floor and into Crookshanks’ eager paws. She watched as he eagerly clawed, purring in satisfaction. She stood up gingerly, and leaned over the desk. She grabbed the quill, unscrewed an ink bottle and began to scrawl.

An hour later, or it could have been several, she jumped in her chair as she heard a tap at the window. She looked up to find Ginny hovering there, leaning in to push the window up higher.

‘I hope I didn’t scare you!’

‘No, not at all. I’ve been a bit lost in my own head.’ Hermione gestured to the parchment, dense now with words and figures.

‘I can see that,’ Ginny squinted at the text. ‘It looks good, Hermione. I’ve not a clue what it means, but it looks like it’s yours.’

Hermione nodded, smiling slightly.

‘I’ve come to ask you a favour though – the boys are doing my head in. Come play with us? Female solidarity?’

Hermione laughed.

‘I’m not sure I’d be much use to you Ginny…’

‘That’s not the point! They’re being wankers, I need backup.’ Ginny blew some hair from her face, her cheeks red.

‘Fine,’ Hermione said. ‘Room on the broom?’

‘Always,’ said Ginny, helping her friend out of the window. Hermione’s fingers were ink stained as they clenched together around Ginny’s waist.

‘I’m really not very good at this,’ she muttered. 

‘It’s fine, I just need your acerbic wit and general presence to subdue Ron,’ said Ginny, sniggering as she swept towards the orchard again. Hermione grumbled in protest, but it wasn’t long before they reached the makeshift pitch. 

Harry tossed her an old Cleansweep. Ron flew over to her immediately, pulling her close for a kiss, his face flushed and exhilarated. The bags under his eyes were still there, but seeing him relaxed made a world of difference. Hermione kissed him back, and as they flew up into the air, trading airy insults, she felt lighter than she had in months.

The next step was clear: she needed to speak to Fleur. But first, she would let herself play.


	8. A Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grangers go home. Ron gets an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name me a more iconic beta trio than @torestoreamends, @Brief_and_Dreamy and @hillnerd. I'll wait.
> 
> Speaking of waiting, this chapter got waylaid by life, Christmas and work for which I can only apologise. I hope the maturation period had helped it.

_Dear Mr Ronald Weasley,_

_On behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I am delighted to invite you to an interview with Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt on Friday the 31st of July at 9am. As you may be aware, this meeting is held in regards to a potential opportunity for you in our new Fast Track Auror training scheme._

_We hope that you will be in attendance. Please reply by Owl at your earliest convenience._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Jo Oswald_  
_Department Secretary_  
_Magical Law Enforcement_

‘Ron, are you ready to go?’ Hermione called from the landing. Ron hastily crumpled the letter into his back pocket, and grabbed his coat from his bed. Bounding down the stairs two at a time, he smiled hastily at Hermione, whose face was set in an anxious frown. She looked like she wanted to say something as he turned to open the front door to the Burrow, but seemed to think the better of it.

He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. There was too much to do today and he was worried enough about how things would go.

For the first time since the war, they were heading back to the Grangers’ house. Paul had arranged a rental car and was picking them up just outside of London. Arthur would be joining them as well, too excited by the prospect of a car journey to be dissuaded. Ron suspected there was more to it than just the car though: nobody was quite sure what they would find at the house, and a team of Curse Breakers were being sent ahead to check the place over. 

Just outside the Burrow’s boundaries, Hermione squeezed Ron’s hand and they twisted into time and space. They emerged seconds later behind a Muggle train station in Windsor. It was thankfully quiet, and they made their way to the car park, where an excited Arthur Weasley beamed at them, gesturing up at a large billboard advertising ‘LEGOland’.

‘Isn’t that ingenious? Built by hand I would wager. Didn’t you have some of this as a child Ron? I brought it home from work, I’m sure.’

‘Er yes, you did, but the twins charmed it to shoot up my nose, so Mum threw it out.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course, I remember now.’ A pang of sadness flitted across his father’s face at the mention of the twins, and Ron was grateful when Paul pulled into the car park a moment later. Ron didn’t know anything about cars, but his father lit up at the sight of the reasonably-sized green vehicle. Paul rolled the window down and called out to them.

‘Morning!’

They made their way to the car and settled with Arthur in the front and Ron and Hermione in the back. Privately, Ron found the space a bit cramped for his long legs, but it meant he could be nearer Hermione and that was enough for him. Hermione and her father excused themselves briefly to go and get coffee.

As he watched his father click his seatbelt into place, Ron realised that he hadn’t seen him this… normal since before the war. He smiled as his dad started to fiddle with buttons and controls, jumping as he accidentally turned the volume up to maximum on the radio. 

After a minute or two, Hermione and Paul emerged from the station coffee shop with four Styrofoam cups. Their faces were tense, the niceties of their greeting forgotten, and Arthur was quick to soften his grin in an appropriate show of solidarity. Ron couldn’t blame him. The argument Ron had walked in on yesterday had been quite something.

_Ron arrived in the door of the family waiting room to find Hermione and Paul on their feet. He was so taken aback by seeing Hermione’s ire directed at someone other than himself that it took him a moment to register what was happening. They were – well, not quite shouting exactly, but hissing heatedly at one another._

_‘I’m telling you Dad, it’s not safe.’_

_‘And I am telling you, Hermione, that it is my house and that it is not your decision to make.’_

_‘You don’t underst—’_

_‘Enough! Enough Hermione! I have been patient this long but you cannot and will not make any more decisions for me, do you understand? You’ve taken enough liberties as it is.’_

_Ron heard Hermione suck a breath in between her teeth, her eyes rimmed with red. Her father glared at her, one eyebrow raised in warning._

_‘I’m your father. You need to let me handle this now.’ Paul’s voice was quieter, but hard nonetheless._

_‘I…’_

_‘No.’_

_Ron watched her fists ball in frustration, her hair crackling loose around her face. He coughed gently and placed the coffee down on the side table as Hermione and her father slowly took their seats again, faces flushed. He opened his mouth to ask if everything was ok, but before he could speak Paul turned to him, addressing him quickly and cursory._

_‘Ron, is your father around? I need to speak with him.’_

_‘Oh, uh, yes he was just downstairs a moment ago. Heading for the canteen.’_

_‘Great.’ Paul left the room swiftly, his coffee untouched._

_Ron turned to Hermione, whose arms were crossed, her jaw set and one foot tapping menacingly on the floor._

_‘Dare I ask?’ _

_She shot him a glare. ‘He wants to go to the house.’_

_‘That doesn’t seem too awful?’_

_Before she could admonish him, a nurse entered the room and shoo-ed them away, escorting another family behind her. They left hurriedly._

_The interruption led to some unexpected and rather brilliant snogging in a nearby cupboard. It was no surprise to Ron that Hermione was prone to outbursts of physical affection when she was wound up. As she twisted her hands in his hair, it crossed his mind that really he should do something about this tendency of hers, but it was hard to concentrate as the heat built between their bodies. They emerged rather dishevelled some ten minutes later, and headed straight home to the Burrow._

Hermione passed him his coffee, before buckling herself into the backseat of the car. He smiled at her, ears still burning at the memory, and she smiled briefly back, her eyes clouded with worry. He reached for her free hand and squeezed it in earnest. She responded by wrapping his fingers in hers. 

Ron had to hold back a laugh as Paul handed Arthur a map and his dad let out a whoop of joy at the different road patterns. Paul looked bemused, and Ron felt a rush of affection at Paul’s patience with his father.

\---

They’d been in the car for ages. Ron’s legs cramped uncomfortably as they rolled past various large blue signs, indicating place names he was barely familiar with. Slough, Maidenhead, Reading. He found himself wondering what Hermione’s house would be like. He’d never been – they’d always met in London, or at the Burrow. Would it be old? New, like that awful Muggle house Harry had lived in? He’d tried to ask Hermione in Australia but she had changed the subject quickly.

Whatever it looked like, he hoped beyond hope that nothing terrible had happened to the Grangers’ home. 

The Burrow had remained unscathed, the Fidelius Charm having held long after they left, but he was certain Hermione had been so focussed on her parents' lives that the material protection of her home was at best an afterthought. He could feel her tension as she gazed out of the window. Her jaw was set and she gripped her empty coffee cup tightly. Ron brushed her knee and she started. He tried to say what he wanted to with a faint squeeze and a smile – this will be ok. We can do this.

As they drove, Paul asked Arthur a little about his job post-war. Arthur was tactfully trying to avoid the topic of just how much anti-Muggle vandalism and acts of terror had escalated, but as Ron tuned back into the conversation, his hand now resting on Hermione’s leg, he was surprised to hear Paul asking explicitly, ‘What’s the worst we could find?’ 

Hermione’s ears seemed to prick up too, and she looked worriedly at Mr Weasley.

‘It rather depends. We’ve had cases of total destruction, mostly by fire,’ he hesitated, looking at Paul, who stared stonily at the road ahead, ‘but in the worst cases, it tends to be hidden curses or boobytraps that cause the most trouble. A lot depends on what protections are in place.’ Paul’s eyes flashed upwards to meet Hermione’s in the rearview mirror. She blanched, but spoke steadily.

‘I used situational magic, mostly. I didn’t want the neighbours to realise a house was suddenly missing, like with the Fidelius, or to raise concerns about Mum and Dad not being there any more – that would have put them in danger. So I adapted Muffliato. I made it so that when any of the neighbours thought of us, they’d hear a buzzing and get distracted and forget. The same happened when they would look at the house. I… I also used basic protection charms, _Salvia Hexa, Cave Inimicum,_ but I’ve no idea if they will have held.’

Mr Weasley looked suitably impressed at Hermione’s account of her efforts. Paul flushed slightly, and Ron could see a vein thrumming in his neck. He wondered if it was anger or frustration. Ron wondered if he had understood even half of what his daughter had said. To his credit, he cleared his throat and simply said, ‘thank you, Arthur.’

‘Not at all – we have our best team there, they should have a handle on it by the time we get there. I think you –‘ he indicated Ron and Hermione ‘will be particularly pleased with our personnel choice.’

\---

Ron hadn’t thought it possible, but when they arrived on the outskirts of Bristol, the tension in the car wound even tighter. Paul had no difficulty remembering the way to their old home, and Hermione glanced between the back of his head and the window so much that Ron was genuinely concerned that she would get whiplash. 

They turned the corner of a small, tree-lined street onto Ivy Lane. Ron looked closely at the houses. Though they each stood alone, they were relatively close together. There was no uniformity to them – some were low slung, modern houses, while others were older stone-built cottages. Ron’s eyes rested on a stone cottage with a second storey, set a little bit back from the road, with wide windows and a green front door. Hermione’s fingers clutched reflexively at his arm, and he knew this had to be it. He was surprised to see a group of three people in deep conversation outside of the house. He was even more surprised to see that the group that included a tall, red-headed man with a ponytail. 

As they pulled up, Bill turned to wave at them, and made his way towards the car. Ron noticed that Paul took a moment to let go of the steering wheel and turn the keys in the ignition to off. Ron was glad to escape from the back seat, and had to hold back an audible sigh of relief as he stood and stretched. Hermione emerged beside him, staying close to his side. Bill flashed them both a smile, and Ron felt the familiar sense that he got around his eldest brother, a warmth in his chest that told him things were going to be alright.

‘Paul, this is my eldest son, Bill…’ Arthur explained, as Bill held out his hand, smiling reassuringly at Paul. Paul’s shoulders relaxed as he took in the casual nature of Bill’s stance and his air of authority. Arthur indicated the others, still surveying the outside of the house. ‘And this is Eliza Perkins...’ The blonde witch holding a clipboard and quill gave a wave. ‘And Marcus Helms.’ A bespectacled, broad-shouldered wizard nodded as he pointed out something on the clipboard to Eliza. 

‘It’s so good to meet you Paul,’ said Bill with a warm smile ‘We’re all here as part of the Ministry’s post-war Curse Breaking team – we’ve been running over the house for the last couple of hours, and the good news is there’s no structural damage or signs of Dark Magic interference in any of the rooms.’

Ron heard Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

‘There was – some vandalism,’ he continued, carefully. ‘We’ve gotten rid of the worst of it, and started repairs on the damage to the contents, but you may find some parts of the interior aren’t as you remember them.’ 

Paul nodded and looked at Hermione.

‘May we go inside?’

‘Of course! Hermione, it’s wands out just in case, but we’ve done the main sweeps. You did an excellent job of protecting it.’ 

Paul looked at his daughter with a mix of pride and shock. Hermione’s cheeks reddened and Ron felt some of the tension lift between them. He knew that this was his cue to step back, and he gave Hermione’s hand a squeeze before she stepped forward to join her father. He watched as they walked up to the front door. Paul slid his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and paused briefly before pushing the door open.

Arthur looked at Bill, and without prompting Bill spoke. ‘It was okay. Some vicious vandalism to the exterior, the usual Mudblood nonsense. We got rid of most of it. They’d tried, mind you – some nasty attacks on the overall structure, but Hermione’s charms held.’

Ron felt his stomach twist in anger. His fist clenched convulsively at his side and he looked grimly at the house. Eliza and Marcus came over to join them. 

‘That’s the full check completed, Bill.’ Eliza passed him the clipboard. 

Bill read it closely. ‘Thanks, El.’

‘Eliza, I was so sorry to hear about your father,’ said Arthur. 

Eliza’s eyes cast downward. ‘That’s kind of you Arthur. He was so tired by the end. Chronic lumbago on top of everything else. He was peaceful, at least.’

Ron realised with a pang that this must be Perkins’ daughter. He wasn’t sure how to reconcile the man himself with the tent they had lived in for the last year. He was glad when Bill and Marcus started talking shop again, before Eliza could mention Fred. The team showed them the list of checks they had run and the procedures involved. Ron wasn’t sure he understood the finer details, and wondered briefly if this was something that would be covered in training. 

Training. He hadn’t really thought of it as a thing that would definitely be happening, but his gut feeling at that moment was one of certainty. He hadn’t even spoken to Harry about it yet, he realised. Harry had left before the post came – maybe Ron could persuade him to go for a drink later, to talk it out. An identical letter had been left on his camp bed at the Burrow, after all.

Before long, Hermione reappeared and walked over to them.

‘Thank you, Bill,’ she said quietly, her eyes rimmed with red. ‘It’s so much better than we could have hoped.’

Bill pulled Hermione into a hug. 

‘You’re family, Hermione, it’s the least we could do.’ 

She sniffed, and smiled at Bill. Grabbing Ron’s hand again, she motioned for him to come with her, back into the house.

‘Dad’s in his study, checking on his books,’ she said quietly. ‘I haven’t checked my room yet – I couldn’t quite face it alone.’

Ron felt his pulse quicken at the thought of Hermione’s bedroom, somewhere his imagination had never dared to wander. He swallowed quickly and took a deep breath as they crossed the threshold into the house. 

It smelled slightly dusty, as though furniture had just been moved after a very long time. He took in the polished wooden floor underneath his feet. The front door led directly into a large, airy living space lined with bookshelves. A small television sat in the corner and a comfortable-looking sofa and two matching armchairs were arranged around the open fireplace. Each armchair, he noted, had a lamp beside it, angled as though for reading. He could picture Hermione here, poring over a book. 

Windowed doors opened from the living room to a small, overgrown garden, in which there was a large pond, covered in a green algae, beside an old wooden table and chairs. To the left, he caught sight of the shiny countertops of a modern kitchen and a worn wooden dining table set with four chairs. There was electricity in the air, a sense that a lot of magic had just been performed, like the air settling again after a storm. He didn’t want to dwell on what it must have looked like before they arrived.

Hermione gestured towards the wide exposed staircase that led from the living room up to the next floor. They climbed the stairs quietly, and as they reached the landing, Ron heard a shuffling of papers from a small room to the left. He assumed that must be Paul’s study. The door to a white porcelain bathroom was open, and to the right, the door to a bedroom that he assumed must be the Grangers, thanks to a glimpse of a double bed and the corner of a dressing table. A pale wooden door stood closed at the end of the corridor, and Ron saw an old brass ‘H’ in the dim hallway light. Hermione grasped his hand and took a shaky breath as she turned the handle to enter the room.

The first thing Ron noticed was the light. Though it was dusty, the early afternoon light illuminated the interior. The eaves of the cottage made the ceilings relatively low slung, and beneath one of the slanted walls was a soft-looking single bed, covered in a blue duvet that reminded Ron of the flames Hermione would conjure in her jam jars. It was a peaceful kind of room and the air smelled faintly of Hermione, faded notes of a crisp, green petrichor that Ron associated with books and warmth. She’d taught him that word – petrichor – out on the Quidditch pitch one spring day. It was perfect. 

A wooden desk sat underneath the eaves by the window, and the walls were unsurprisingly full of bookcases, filled to the brim with books. One large shelf was noticeably emptier than the others, and Ron wondered if it had held the books that now rattled around in the small beaded bag. A small chest of drawers sat near the foot of the bed, with a simple wardrobe next to it. A mirror was fixed to the wardrobe and Ron caught sight of their reflections, noticing how different they both looked in this post-war world, with drawn faces and battle scars still evident. Hermione’s face was pale as she took it all in. She seemed to sag with relief as she took inventory of everything. Ron watched as she dropped her bag on the bed, and was surprised when she suddenly dropped to her knees.

‘Hermione are you-’ he asked in alarm, but before he could finish, she had lain flat on the floor and pushed her head and arms under the bed.

‘Just – checking something-’ she coughed. 

Ron waited, and listened as a curious sound of clanking, thumping and the perplexing noise of a lock releasing followed in quick succession. Hermione reappeared, her hair wild and her face dusty, holding an old biscuit tin in her hands. Ron noted the French writing on the tin, and the old fashioned illustrations of biscuits against a Parisian backdrop. Hermione smiled slightly as she sat down on the bed, motioning for Ron to sit next to her.

‘I was worried they’d get this,’ she said quietly, opening the tin. Ron blinked as an array of wizarding photos waved up at him, nestled amongst envelopes, small trinkets and a slightly shabby looking toy mouse. He could see Hermione’s old Prefect badge, still shining, and a faded Quidditch flyer from his first match with Gryffindor. The corner of her Hogwarts letter was visible, as well as some old Muggle photos of the Granger family.

‘I didn’t want to take it all with us,’ Hermione said quietly, ‘but I wanted to keep it safe.’ She smiled quietly to herself as her finger traced the lines on a wizarding photo of the three of them in their fifth year.

‘I’d have thought you’d be worried about these!’ Ron said, indicating the books on the shelves around them. 

Hermione laughed, and the sound was so light and strange that Ron found himself surprised.

‘I couldn’t quite picture someone like Yaxley enjoying my old children’s books, Ron. _The Saddle Club_ doesn’t really go with the blood supremacy, I don’t think.’

_‘The Saddle Club?_ Like, horses? Did you ride horses, Hermione? Hermione Granger, are you _posh?!_’ He teased her, tickling her ribs, watching her get flustered and swat at his arm with an old Quidditch programme.

‘Oh stop it, Ron! I didn’t- I tried but I was bad at it. I thought if I read the books I might be able to fit in and get a bit better, but then the books got more interesting than the riding to be honest.’ 

Ron threw his arm around her, and squeezed her to his side, planting a kiss on her hair. He coughed suddenly, inhaling dust.

‘Sorry… it was quite dusty under there.’

‘Worth it.’

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, thumbing through the photos and old letters he had sent her.

‘Are you going to tell me about it?’ Hermione asked suddenly.

‘Tell you about what?’ He had a feeling he already knew.

‘The letter. The one that came this morning. It’s from Kingsley isn’t it?’

‘How could you possibly…?’

‘Logic. I saw Pig from the window when I was getting dressed and I saw the Ministry Seal. They’re short on Aurors and everything you’ve done – it just makes sense. When we went for those interviews after the war, I had a feeling. I said to Kingsley in mine that I wanted to go back to Hogwarts. I was too scared to ask if you had.’

Ron was stunned by this sudden revelation. She kept talking.

‘I know everything has been a bit mad, and it’s been… a lot. And I’d love for you to come back, I can’t imagine it without you, both of you. But if it’s what you want Ron, I’ll manage. You can do it. We’ll be ok.’

He couldn’t think of what to say. He looked at her in dumb silence, as she examined her Prefect badge.

‘What if I fuck it up, Hermione? I have a habit of doing that.’

‘No, you don’t,’ she said softly, meeting his eyes. ‘You have a habit of fixing things. You’re the bravest person I know.’

‘Hermione, you know Ha-’

‘Don’t. Say. Harry. Just don’t. We’re past that. Harry does what he has to, and he’s brave and courageous but you – you’ve come back from it all Ron, and it comes from your heart and you could’ve stayed away or walked away hundreds of times and you didn’t, you always came back and you saved me, more than you know. So don’t say Harry. You are the bravest person I know, and I love you.’

He still wasn’t used to hearing those words from her. They felt so familiar and so right, but still stunning in their simplicity and their beauty. The rush of warmth and need that he felt, knowing that she meant that, feeling those doubts washing away – it was all so new. 

Moving impulsively, without thinking, he grabbed her face between his hands and kissed her deeply. She shifted closer to him and as he broke away, he rested his forehead to hers, wishing he could transfer everything he was feeling straight from his brain to hers. He hoped the kiss had done that – she was certainly flushed, and he could see her chest rising rapidly under the dark red t-shirt she was wearing.

‘Ron – my dad is in the next room…’

‘You shouldn’t say stuff like that then,’ he mumbled. He kissed her forehead and pulled back, grudgingly. 

‘Yes I should,’ she said, looking at him steadily, eyes blazing. ‘I absolutely should.’

They sat in silence for a beat, then as if on cue, Ron heard his father’s voice call up the stairs.

‘Everything ok?’

‘Come on up, Arthur!’ Paul called, the door to the study banging open.

Hermione crammed the tin of memories into the beaded bag that still accompanied her wherever she went, even now. Ron stood slowly, hoping that the obvious impact of the last few minutes would lessen in the time it took her to sort her rumpled top and pick up a few extra belongings. He realised he wasn’t sure if this visit meant the Grangers would be moving back in. He rather hoped it didn’t – the stolen nights with Hermione at the Burrow were something he was holding on to to get him through his own demons. 

They made their way back down the stairs, to find Paul preparing some tea. Arthur and Bill sat at the kitchen table, the other Curse-Breakers having been dismissed. It was an incongruous sight, the two Weasley men sat at the Muggle table, their wands resting out in front of them. Hermione seemed pleased though, and Ron could feel the palpable release of tension as she went to help her father, who squeezed her arm gently. Ron took a seat beside his brother.

Paul’s voice cut through the silence.

‘Damn! No milk. Hermione could you-’

Before he could finish, Hermione rushed over to the beaded bag resting on the countertop and thrust her arm in. Ron had to stifle a laugh at the shock on Paul’s face, and the bemusement on his father’s. Bill had seen the bag before, of course, at Shell Cottage. After a moment, Hermione pulled out an old glass bottle. Ron laughed out loud, remembering the cups of tea they’d made in the tent over the last year.

‘It’s UHT,’ explained Hermione, ‘it’s still good, promise. I preserved it with a charm.’

Paul took the bottle uncertainly and gave it a dubious sniff. Hermione smiled as he turned round to add milk to the mugs.

‘We used it in the tent,’ Ron said. ‘Wasn’t always easy to get milk, and the Chosen One couldn’t do his job without a cuppa… He never did get used to taking it black.’

Hermione settled into the chair beside him.

‘What was it like?’ his dad asked, accepting a mug from Paul, who leaned back against the kitchen counter, listening. Ron wondered if he was asking for Paul more than himself.

‘Honestly? A lot of the time it was very, very boring.’

‘Ron, it wasn’t that bad!’ Hermione turned to frown at him.

‘Yes it bloody-’ he shot a quick look at Paul, adjusting his words hastily. ‘I mean, yes it was! You were always reading, Harry was always brooding, and with no Quidditch on the wireless we spent a ludicrous amount of time just existing.’

There was no malice in Ron’s voice, he was just stating facts. He was still uncomfortable with the glamorisation of what they’d done. The details of the Horcruxes themselves were to be kept as restricted intelligence, per their meeting with Kingsley, and though most people knew they had been on a hunt of sorts, he was keen to dispel the image that it had been all heroic antics. He wanted Paul to know that Hermione had been okay, that they’d looked out for one another. Most of all, he just didn’t want anyone to worry anymore. They’d had enough of that.

‘You were skin and bones when we saw you in April,’ commented Bill, taking a sip of tea. ‘It must’ve been a nightmare trying to get food.’

‘Hermione made some really good mushrooms!’ Ron responded, a little too quickly. He was relieved to see her smile as she rolled her eyes.

‘No, I didn’t. But thank you, Ron. We stockpiled when we could – supermarkets and so on – but it wasn’t much. We didn’t steal! I had to leave money in some rather strange places though.’

Paul looked amused, rather than scandalised by this revelation.

‘And Perkins’ old tent really survived the winter?’ Arthur mused. ‘He’d have loved that.’

‘I mean, it didn’t collapse. The smell didn’t quite disappear, even with Hermione’s freshening charms. We did try Mum’s old trick of boiling a lemon though, that helped.’

Bill laughed. ‘You should tell her that, you know. She’ll be chuffed.’

‘Hermione – you camped for the whole year?’ Paul asked, seemingly shocked. Hermione turned beetroot red.

‘Yes,’ she hissed, seeming keen to cut him off.

‘It’s just-’

‘Nobody needs to hear this, Dad.’

‘Yes they do!’ Ron grinned, anticipating an anecdote from Hermione’s youth. He’d had so little access to these over the years, each one was something to savour.

‘Well, when we went to Normandy…’

‘Oh Merlin, not this Dad, please.’

‘You were only six, sweetheart, it’s fine. When we went to Normandy, Hermione was so excited about camping, she’d packed all of her things and read at least two books about it. She didn’t realise we would be staying in a camper van, so she’d taken her own little tent with her. When we arrived at the campsite it was raining, so we asked her if she still wanted to sleep outside. And you know Hermione, there’s no changing her mind once she gets an idea, so she insisted we leave her alone while she set up. She called us out to tuck her in, and there she was surrounded by her books with a little lamp, so pleased with herself – she’d put the tent up on her own. We said goodnight, but in the middle of the night we heard our door creak open and Hermione was there, soaked to the bone, in floods of tears – there had been a little tear in the tent and she and all of her books were sodden. She swore off camping after that – wouldn’t even join the Brownies, would you love?’

Hermione looked very much like she wanted the ground to swallow her up. Ron found the whole spectacle beyond adorable. 

‘That explains why we weren’t allowed to leave the books out overnight!’

‘Ron got a letter today,’ she cut across the laughter, keen for a distraction. Ron felt the bottom plummet out of his stomach. He wasn’t sure he was ready to share this just yet. Better here than the Burrow, he supposed.

‘Did you, Ron?’ His father asked, curiously.

‘Er, yeah. From Kingsley, actually.’

‘This wouldn’t be about the Fast Track Auror programme would it?’ 

‘Looks that way, yep.’ He stared into his tea, unsure of what to say. Being around his father and brother made him feel smaller somehow. His father’s face was tight with worry, despite the flash of pride in his eyes. Paul looked to Hermione who shook her head and mouthed ‘I’ll explain later’.

‘Bloody hell, my baby brother! An Auror?’

Ron looked up at Bill, who was grinning widely. He gave him a sheepish smile. ‘Apparently.’

Bill grabbed Ron’s arm, and gave it a gentle shake, before ruffling his hair. 

Ron groaned. ‘Gerroff Bill!’

‘That’s amazing, Ron. Blimey, when did you get so grown up?’

‘Somewhere between last summer and now, I reckon.’

He caught his brother’s gaze and wondered if he was also thinking about the night he had turned up on his doorstep at Shell Cottage, wracked with guilt and shame, and wild-eyed with worry. Bill had ushered him inside without a word. He had kept his arm firmly around Ron as he cried, despite his obvious misgivings about what Ron had done. Once Ron had calmed down as much as he could, Bill had shown him to the spare room and handed him a vial of Dreamless Sleep. He’d then sat by Ron’s bed for a while, like he had when Ron was a sleepless child, waiting for him to take the potion.

_‘It’s not the mistakes you’ve made, Ron, they don’t define you. We’d all be fucked if that was the case. It’s how you come back from them. And you can come back from this. You just need to fight like hell for what you love. You can’t leave it behind.’_

Those words had stuck with him, a litany in his head as he searched forest after forest, glen after glen for his friends; for Hermione. With every icy glare from Hermione, every stolen moment of laughter with Harry, he had kept up the fight. He wasn’t going to leave them behind, not ever again.

With this new opportunity, maybe that fight wasn’t over yet.


End file.
